


The Reaper's Only Daughter

by L_Nevada



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bisexual Female Character, Blood, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brotherly Love, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Cigarettes, Cigars, Depression, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Double Penetration, Drama & Romance, During Canon, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Fluff and Smut, Gang Violence, Healthy Relationships, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inappropriate Humor, Injury, Light Dom/sub, Long, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love, Marijuana, Minor Character Death, Motorcycles, Multi, Mutilation, My First Work in This Fandom, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Prostitution, Religious Humor, Romance, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sex, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Slow To Update, Suicide Attempt, Tattoos, Threesome - F/M/M, Torture, Weapons, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-12-06 23:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18226994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Nevada/pseuds/L_Nevada
Summary: Summary: Schuyler is the only child of an Original Nine member, the only female patch, and the rightful heir to the SAMTEX charter.  But in accordance with her father's dying wish, instead of assuming the President patch, she returns to his original chapter in Charming, CA.  Follow Schuyler's life-long journey of self-discovery as she tries to honor her father's memory, forge her own path in a male dominated organization, and craft extraordinary relationships only to have them tested as this makeshift family slowly starts to unravel at the seams.Synopsis: This story is a retelling of the original series.  It will often diverge from canon.  It is also meant to tell the story from the perspective of B and C list characters bringing them to the foreground.  The story is told in present tense 3rd person omniscient, retelling the origins of the SOA if Edward "The Midnight Sky" Schuyler had been an Original Nine Member and ends long after the series finale.  Along with filling in blanks during canon time skips and adding original characters throughout, story lines and minor character traits may be altered, and original story lines added, to give a fresh new look to this series and its characters.





	1. Prologue: Laying the Foundation

**Author's Note:**

> As suggested by the title and synopsis I have created a female OC who is a fully integrated and viable patch member. This is also my first work for this fandom that I love! This also happens to be my first real attempt at a proper WIP and novel length work.
> 
> I know that there are real world scenarios as well as canonical reasons why females cannot join criminal syndicates however, I am writing an AU and a question has been nagging me for nine months: What a woman was patched? Schuyler was born and has been living with me ever since.
> 
> This story follows closely with the original series. I have written a prologue in past tense to establish what the SOA looks like with Schuyler's father, Edward, being an original nine member and to introduce Schuyler as a character. The first chapter picks up in present tense three days before the pilot episode when the gun factory blows up (ah, remember season 1? Let's go back and pretend all this mess never happened, shall we? Once more from the top!).
> 
> Many scenes and some dialogue will feel familiar. Equally, some will be brand new. Timelines or plotlines may move or change to better fit the story I am telling. You may know what is happening, but information may be told differently and to different characters than how it was presented in canon. Similarly some characters may be deleted or replaced with OCs (ex. we will meet SAMTEX in the second half). And some character traits or relationships may be exaggerated or changed (ex. the main romance between Chibs and Tig, which starts as a secret!). As I mentioned, I am expounding on characters from the show who perhaps had a little less screen time than others to fully develop their stories and help to tell the story from their perspective. This is not Jackson's story. This is Schuyler's story. Secondly, this is an ensemble story. Also know that most of the character deaths will still occur though they may occur differently or in different times than they did in the tv show. The question is not who, but when and why?
> 
> The chapters I have put together thus far have been rather long. In fact, they read much like an episode is presented. The trick is to keep them from being too long, but let me worry about that! Because I am working with so much material at once it will be some time between each chapter. I say this to be transparent. I will release the Prologue and chapter 1 together first. Then I will post a chapter each month on the first for as long as I can starting on the first of April. I will try to communicate changes to schedules as clearly as I can as they come up.
> 
> As it stands, I have listed this fic as having 5 chapters because that is the number I am most secure and confident in disclosing now. The number of chapters like the tags will change as I continue to write. As far as tags and triggers are concerned, I will post at the top of the first chapter where a sex scene appears as well as any major triggers. Then the tag will be added to the masterlist and it can reappear at any time through out (recall the original series). But know this will be a long and arduous process. With luck, this story will be as long and complex as the original (I'm hoping for more than 300k words!), but I am getting ahead of myself.
> 
> I was hoping to have more of a back log before I started posting chapters. However, I have been living with this character and story for far too long and am super excited to share my progress thus far! It think it best to make sure there is a market for my WIP before I start thinking seriously about 300k words.
> 
> With all this being said, I'm super excited to share my new world! We are going to start simple with a prologue. Then the first official chapter will transition into present tense and we will be off and running! 
> 
> Thank you if you clicked on my story. Thank you if you read any of my rambling establishments of this story. And thank you if you decided to give my story a chance. I hope you get something out of it!
> 
> Without further ado, Enjoy the story...

Meredith Rose Schuyler was born in the small town of Valor, TX with a population of no more than 5,000 individuals precisely one-hour north of the Mexican-American border and two hours south of the border between Texas and New Mexico. She was born October 25, 1980 to Edward and Samantha Schuyler at precisely Midnight on a stormy Friday morning. As of the start of her story in 2008 she is 28 years old.

At 5’8”, weighing approximately 185 pounds, Schuyler is an attractive woman with full shoulder length blonde hair, soft blue eyes, and naturally long eyelashes. She has wide hips, large thighs, and an impressively ample chest, but a firm and even abdomen that accentuates her already curvy figure. Her skin is mostly a pristine white except for three or four visible stretch marks on either side of her chest. At the beginning of the story she has two tattoos: a large black, white, and gray piece of artwork covering her entire left leg from knee to ankle depicting two large and two small Chrysanthemum flowers woven together with vines. Each flower as well as the background were meticulously shaded to give the piece a realistic appearance. The second is a teapot pouring hot tea into a tea cup hovering just above her inner right ankle which she is just as proud of. 

She received most of her physical features from her mother as well as her mother’s warm laugh and desire to learn. However, there is no doubt that when Schuyler smiles, she is her father’s child. She also inherited his love for world traveling, his singsong voice, and exquisite taste in music. 

Schuyler was born the only child of Edward “The Midnight Sky” Schuyler when he was 39 years of age. He met Schuyler’s mother Samantha at the age of 20 when she was 18 in Texas during his days in the army. Though Edward traveled during much of his time in the armed forces and was deployed during the Vietnam War he often found ways to visit Samantha during his leaves. When he was discharged at the age of 26 he returned home to California with nine men from his Platoon including his best friends John Teller and Piermont Winston. Together, with nothing left for them after the war, the group organized a club of sorts that would serve to give each of the members an excuse to meet regularly and remain in touch. This group was an unofficial and dispersed motorcycle club that formed in 1967 called the Sons of Anarchy: Redwood. Very little came out of this group other than monthly rides and regular camping trips resulting in opportunities to relive the “good ol’ days” for the first few months of the club’s existence. However, things changed when John’s wife Gemma became pregnant and the group decided to settle down in her home town of Charming, California. The expectations that came with the expected arrival of a baby did two things to the club: divide it and expand it.

John, who had been made the unofficial “President”, knew that he would be unable to keep a house and provide for his new family on the salary of a lone mechanic. He knew he had to do more; he had to invest. He partnered with Clayton Morrow, the youngest of the First Nine, and purchased a plot of land with an auto shop that stood as its main attraction. Not long after, he began to lay the plans for a private owned bar to be built on the same property which would eventually hold all club meetings. With the introduction of a business to provide jobs for members the club became less about motorcycles and more about community. Teller-Morrow as the establishment was named became one of the most profitable and beloved family owned businesses in Charming. The club was secure and prosperous for a time. Those in association with the members found companionship and those who wore the club vest formed a brotherhood that many carried with them from the army and extended to those who later joined. 

Everyone that is, except for Edward. He poured his life into the formation of the club, but his heart had been with Samantha since he was 20 years old. Samantha’s home and family were in Texas and she would never leave. The annual drives Edward would take to visit her became harder to wait for and his visits lasted longer each time. Eventually he would make the decision not to return at all. 

While John and his wife’s baby brought prosperity to the club as a whole, his arrival made Edward realize that he had been neglecting his own desires by remaining apart from his wife-to-be. In 1973, Edward said goodbye to his life and family in Charming and moved to Texas to be with Samantha. This move was sanctioned at a cost. Edward was entrusted to create and run the first branching charter of the SOA club in Texas. This would mean that the club operated in two separate states and business would have to grow to meet the demand and keep up the traditions of brotherhood and community that had quickly been instilled in those effected by its presence. Edward pulled all his resources and was able to open his own shop in Valor, Texas where he resided as the sole owner. With the help of Ethan Dyer, a patch brother who would reside as the Texas charter’s first Vice President, he was able to set up a functioning clubhouse to hold meetings within a month of his transition. It was decided that the smallest a settled charter could be was 5 men, so Edward and Ethan recruited three more (locals that Samantha could vouch for) in just two weeks time and tentatively patched them in with success. The charter continued to grow from there.

With the near immediate success of the Texas charter, Sons of Anarchy would continue to expand rapidly for the next thirty years. Charters sprung up from the border of Canada to small towns across Europe and one even appeared in Australia. The club at its largest size combining all charters rounded out to 568 at one point in 1998 and has since continued to fluctuate. The Texas charter under Edward Schuyler is widely considered to be one of the most successful in the club’s history due to its equal parts’ ideal location and strong leadership.  
Each charter is under democratic rule headed by a counsel: A President, Vice President, Sergeant Arms, and Secretary. Those leading are free to make their own rules and decide the best way for their members to produce a sustainable profit. Many have chosen to work out of auto shops as the “Mother charter” had while others owned escort businesses, bars, gas stations, or even convenient stores. However, all charters looked to the original Mother charter, since renamed the Sons of Anarchy: Redwood Original for guidance. It was originally Vice President Clay Morrow’s idea, with support from several other members throughout the charters, to introduce the club to the business of gun running in 1975. By 1979, this trade became the primary denominator of all charters and the SOA was a widely recognized as an outlaw gang in over ten states and seven countries, but this did not slow its progression. 

Guns were supplied from a branch charter in Belfast, Ireland and arrived in California to be spread from charter to charter throughout western America. Product that wasn’t sold to organizations within the states left the country through Edward’s charter across the Mexican border. Each branch of the club faces its own obstacles when earning a sustainable living, but Valor obtains most of its money by making monthly runs bypassing Border Control and entering Mexico. Valor was chosen as the town to settle in due to its small population with an equally small police department where the force was more than willing to cooperate with the club. Being so close to the border, at an entrance with significantly less border control than anywhere else, and equally as close to New Mexico, SAMTEX was an ideal location. The charter found plentiful wealth with few years of unprofitable business. However, the promise of success and riches comes at a price. Namely the constant looming gaze of Border Control and similar federal agents watching over the club’s every move and the constant threat of confrontation with notorious Hispanics including the Mexican the Cartel. These factors led Edward and Samantha to wait several years after the club was developed and for their finances to become secure before they ever tried to conceive a child. 

The gender of the highly anticipated baby was kept a secret from all including the patiently awaiting parents until the night of the child’s birth. A nurse fresh out of college placed a healthy new born baby girl into Edward’s arms at 12:07 am and his first instinct was to cry out of a pure joy that he had never previously experienced. His second was to pass the infant to her mother and call his friends that resided in California. John didn’t answer on the first attempt, so Edward called Piermont. Piermont answered immediately and the two talked for hours. Edward received nothing but joy and praise from his companion, if not some friendly chiding for having taken so long to have his first child. John returned Edward’s call in the early morning hours and his first question to his best friend was not “ten fingers and ten toes”, but rather, “is it a boy”? 

The answer being ‘no’ brought about a different sort of conversation to the one Edward had with Piermont. While congratulations were in order for the first-born child of SAMTEX John was overly concerned with the future of the charter entrusted to maintain the border and questioned his close friend about when he and his wife would be trying again to produce a male heir to the Presidential seat.

This conversation didn’t spring from a malicious place but rather from one of genuine concern. Due to the fact that the SOA club has a list of unspoken bylaws that must be followed by all charters, such as the fairly prominent one stating that all patched members are male, Edward’s first born would not be eligible to join. While any ranking official including the President can be replaced and the position held by anyone a charter sees fit at any time, SAMTEX had only known one president and due to its success, it would be ideal if its successor was of the same bloodline. 

Edward, having known this to be the case, was still infuriated by the thought of his first born being ineligible to wear his club’s ‘kutte’ or bare its ink. Edward attempted to reason with the MC’s creator, who he was obligated to adhere to, over the course of several days to seemingly no avail. Piermont argued for Edward that any legitimate child of a First Nine member had more right to be patched in than any other relative or outsider regardless of sex because they were of direct family lineage. John, exhausted with arguing during a time that should have been a joyous occasion finally settled on an agreement with his fellow President down south.

Edward had 18 years to groom his daughter for the club. She would have the opportunity to ‘prospect’ like any man who wished to join. After a year of observation, SAMTEX could decide if the child was fit to bare the Reaper or be cast out. Until her fate was decided no member outside of SAMTEX would know the name, gender, or whereabouts of the SAMTEX child. The secret was kept between the three friends and one would even take it to his grave before the secret was ever brought to light. 

Edward and Samantha knew the risks of keeping the secret from other charters. They independently decided that they would never bare another child before coming to that very decision together. Instead they focused their combined love into raising their beautiful daughter Meredith. They spent her entire adolescence making sure she was exposed to two ways of life: the civilian side where she went to school and was well educated with a few friends and a promising future in any career she chose. And the gangland side where her family and closest friends resided. Few in the club were educated, but with the combined force of twenty club members, eight adoring wives, and five children who grew up alongside Meredith she became well versed in interacting with an assortment of individuals from different backgrounds and learned many trades to concur the world she was born into. 

Meredith was 10 when she first asked her father what a cigarette was. Nearly every adult in his daughter’s life smoked cigarettes and almost as many smoked marijuana. At such a young age Edward already knew that he would be unable to prevent his beautiful daughter from taking up such an unhealthy habit. Being the responsible father, Edward politely explained what they were and told his daughter that she would never be allowed to smoke them. Then he smiled as he watched his daughter laugh in his face and run out the front door to play in the yard with her friends confident they had recently asked their father’s the very same question. She began smoking cigarettes at the age of 16 around the time her friends began to steal them from their parents’ bedrooms or gas stations. She wouldn’t smoke around her parents or members of the MC until she was a patched member herself at age 18. However, all the adults knew that she was just as guilty of the habit as the rest of her friends. 

At 12 she began voicing the thought of wanting tattoos. It came as no surprise considering both of her parents bore some and nearly every member in the club had at least one symbol representing Sons of Anarchy on some part of their body along with their own tattoos. By 14 most of the boys were learning how to shoot guns and she had seen a few begin to ride on the back of their father’s motorcycles with the intent of learning how to balance for themselves. At this point Schuyler didn’t know that she was being carefully observed by her parents for what she took an interest in and what things she ignored. All she knew is that she wanted to hang out with her friends in the shooting range and go on bike rides with her dad. Edward smiled fondly and agreed under a set of conditions: she continued to make A’s in school, and she learn a skill that her friends were not interested in learning. That year she learned how to shoot a hand gun and became proficient by the age of 19. She also took up the skill of throwing knives which took her several additional years to master. Her friends have always been very jealous of her knife collection.

At age 15 Meredith became Schuyler. The name allowed her to better fit in with the rambunctious boys she grew up with and don her father’s name with pride. The name along with the nickname of “Sky” fit her well because she was often found outside playing in gardens or on hot asphalt chasing after boys who sometimes slowed down to stay with her and sometimes made her keep up. This made her fast and build endurance at a young age. Wrestling was a popular event in the group who took after their father’s who were often seen throwing fists to settle disputes. Schuyler learned how to throw a punch and receive one in return. This was also the year when Schuyler began to ask for her own motorcycle. She was jealous that her best friend Jesse Dyer (born a week before her and son to the Vice President) received his own before any of the other boys in their friend group. Unknown to her the parents of both children regularly discussed when they should introduce things to their children before either was exposed. She received her first bike on the following week; a fixer-upper that she repaired with her father. She was 16 and old enough to drive it on her own when the project was complete. 

At age 16, with the help of her mother who is a fluid Spanish speaker and Hispanic members of the club, she became fluent in reading and speaking Spanish. This was also the year her friends began to talk excitedly about the year to come when they could begin their prospecting year to enter the motorcycle club themselves. One must be 17 to begin prospecting and no one under the age of 18 can be sworn into the club. This was about the time Schuyler began to realize that she had in fact been being prepared for the day when she could start her prospecting year and the club would soon be judging her every move…if they hadn’t already been doing so. She was observant enough to realize that there was one major difference between herself and the other children she would potentially be prospecting with. While the boys she grew up with didn’t seem to notice this daunting difference their father’s, while they had helped to raise Schuyler and loved her dearly, certainly did. 

At 17 she began prospecting with the group of boys she was raised with. Each child belonged to a member who was already “patched”, and their fathers took it upon themselves to sponsor, or shadow, their children during their prospecting year. The prospecting year is a period of time in which ‘prospects’ ride alongside members of the club, follow them on jobs including some across the Mexican-American border, and learn the meaning of being in such a well-established organization. During her prospecting year Schuyler proved herself a valuable translator and persuasive during negotiations with other organizations. She was attentive, even-tempered, and eager to learn from the patches she rode with. She never once showed that she was intimidated when in the middle of a group of men or shied away from a situation when things turned violent. Rather she put herself in the center of the chaos. If she was ever unsuccessful in deescalating a situation, she drew her gun and made sure every member with her returned home in one piece. It wasn’t long before Edward started to look to Schuyler before making decisions just as much as he looked to his V.P and SA. Sometimes he asked for her opinion before seeking out others. Near the end of her prospecting year all it took was one look to her father for them to communicate and come to a decision between the two of them before they acted on it without doubt.

Schuyler turned 18 and watched all 5 of her friends get patched into the club. One right after the other. Schuyler knew not to press her father on the subject because the decision required careful deliberation and the results would be life as well as club wide altering. In November of 1998, Meredith Rose Schuyler became the first woman to ever be patched into the SOA motorcycle club with a unanimous vote. This was the same month she would be accepted into her dream school. Semesters were spent in a dorm room blaring loud rock music to block out the neighbors who spent their time partying. Summers and holidays were spent on the back of a motorcycle flying down the highway at nearly twice the posted speed limit. A gun on her hip and a set of throwing knives strapped securely to her right leg Schuyler counted down the hours to each weekend she could travel home. She never felt more sure of herself than when she was on the road with her family doing the one thing they knew how to do. Earn. It was on one of these weekends, when a class that Schuyler particularly despised was cancelled, that she would return home early and receive the news that would change her world forever. 

In 2006, Edward Schuyler was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Schuyler’s immediate reaction was to drop all her educational responsibilities and move back home to spend time with her father and take over responsibilities of the club. Edward forbade her from returning home until she graduated with her degree as she had set out to do. Furious, though unwilling to disappoint her father, Schuyler remained at the school until she graduated with her Doctor of Veterinary Medicine (DVM) 6 months later. Instead of entering the work force when she earned her degree, Schuyler ditched her graduation and spent the next 18 months of her life caring for her father, orchestrating jobs and making deliveries based on her own judgement, and preparing SAMTEX for the day it would no longer have the leadership of the only President it had ever known. 

In February of 2008, Edward Schuyler lost his battle with prostate cancer at the age of 67. The wake and proceeding funeral were held four days later. SAMTEX had lost many brother’s due to gangland violence before, but had never experienced the loss of an officer, much less a President. The SOA hadn’t seen a loss so tragic since the passing of John Teller fifteen years prior. While many wanted to make the journey to Texas to pay respects to their sibling charter and the mourning family only members of the Original Nine were allowed to attend. Two of the five surviving members made the trip and were able to meet Schuyler personally. The secret was extended but had yet to be fully released. Piermont was unable to make the trip and will regret it for the rest of his life. When all was said and done Samantha retained most of Edward’s worldly possessions including the deed to the mechanic shop and his official club vest which she hung in the living room on display; the Presidential patch worn with age facing the room at large. Schuyler requested only two things: Edward’s impressive vinyl record collection, a patch from his very own club vest, and the last motorcycle he owned. 

Many expected Schuyler to naturally inherit the President’s patch in the face of Edward’s passing. The club was ready to vote her in and had pushed for her to take the patch even while Edward’s health had been deteriorating. After all, she had done the unthinkable. She had proven herself a worthy attribute capable of wearing the kutte regardless of her gender. It was the role she was breed for. The position she was intended to fill. She was the rightful heir to the gavel that rested at the head of the meeting table. 

But it was after many long and hard conversations were held with the members at that very table, and with her mother who struggled the most because she had dreamed of little else than seeing her daughter break down barriers and take up the President’s seat, that Schuyler decided to take a very different path. 

She revealed to her club that her father had intended for the two of them to travel to Northern California and visit the charter he had left behind for many years before his untimely passing. It wasn’t until the cancer was discovered that Edward realized that he had missed his opportunity to do so. Schuyler revealed that Edward had always intended for her to transfer charters when she came of age in order to find her own path and build her own legacy in a separate charter as not to compete in her father’s demanding shadow. Schuyler wanted nothing more in the world than to keep her promises to her parents to make something of herself and make her father proud by continuing his legacy for him and finding her own way in the world.

Schuyler remained in Valor until new ranking officials could be appointed (Ethan Dyer was elected President and his son Jesse became his V.P) and SAMTEX was prepared to continue in her absence. Then she began what would essentially be a 7-week long journey. It was decided that before Schuyler attempted to make contact with the Mother Charter (now headed by Clayton Marrow who wore the President’s patch and John Teller’s only surviving son Jackson Teller who resided as the V.P) she would first be sponsored by a third-party charter. If she could convince a third charter of her worth and to vouch for her in just a few weeks time her chances of the Mother charter accepting her would likely double. This trial period would also allow her to experience working with a different charter and experience life and club structure from a different perspective. 

It wasn’t difficult to find a suitable host. Nearly every branch of the SOA in the States wanted to host the mystery SAMTEX child with an impressive club track record. Eventually it was decided that she would stay with the Southern California charter known as SANDINO due to its location. It also happened to be headed by one of the last surviving First Nine members Thomas “Uncle Tom” Whitney who had met Schuyler after her father’s passing and would know what to expect from the club transfer. 

Schuyler spent just over 6 weeks with the sibling charter. Tom, along with his fellow patch brothers, were skeptical to say the least upon meeting Schuyler. Many members felt betrayed having a female patch being kept a secret from them for so long. Schuyler, never one to disappoint, was quick to show her eagerness to work and proved herself valuable enough to earn the respect and camaraderie of each member. Many were even sad to see her go but they knew her destiny lied within another charter. 

At the end of her trial period, and nervous for what was possibly the first time in her life though she refused to show it, Schuyler moved on from SANDINO and arrived on Charming’s doorstep 3 days later, ready to take on her next great adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was Edward who, like John, will be referenced throughout the story for guidance. And now you have met Schuyler. But what is her "club record?" And what is her story up to this point? Will SAMCRO accept her willingly? Especially after she was kept a secret for nearly a decade? I guess you will just have to read the next chapter to find out...
> 
> Until next time, this has been Nevada!


	2. The Transfer

A motorcycle traveling fast and loud passed through Teller-Morrow’s towering, sliding-gate entrance. The owner of this particular pan-head is Tig Trager who seamlessly reverse parks the machine into his unofficial, but nonetheless designated space in the middle of a lineup of miscellaneous Harleys. He is the last to arrive which is not unusual. He unclasps the strap of his helmet upon his dismount to reveal a short, tangled mass of black curls and sets it on the seat. 

The bikes currently on the property are owned by members of a locally based motorcycle club known as the Sons of Anarchy. The machines can be seen from the open entrance lined against a metal railing that acts as a natural divide between a bar and a mechanical car shop. Members, along with a few closely reliable friends, are known to have their hands in assisting in the management of the sibling establishments. Yet it is one Clayton Marrow who has resided as the sole owner of the respective businesses for a minimum of the last ten years. 

With Tig’s auditory arrival Clay Morrow and Jackson Teller emerge from the club house to meet him at the bottom of the loading dock in front of the bar. He isn’t given a chance to step away from his motorcycle before he is berated. “Look. I’m late, but I was caught up in something.”

“Knowing you it was probably somebody,” Clay, recognizable by his military styled white hair and matching mustache, approaches with his right hand pointing a single finger towards the younger man accusingly. “The new guy is almost here. I asked you to be on time for one thing.” 

“I know man. Won’t happen again.”

“Won’t be the last time I hear that. Jax, status report.” 

Jackson, who had approached alongside Clay, spouts off the last known whereabouts of his fellow patch members. “Happy brought some of his guys down with him from Washington. Opie just got out of Chino. He picked up some work over at the lumber mill. His Oldman is up at the cabin, but he checked in with Bobby last week, so we know he’s solid. Everyone else is in the clubhouse. I’ve told them everything we know about the recruit “Skylar”. They’re prepared to give him a proper SAMCRO welcome.” Jackson finished with a flick of his head causing his shaggy blond hair to shift and immediately return to his face. 

“Good. I like that I can always count on my V.P.”

“Man, that’s unnecessary,” Tig pouts. It genuinely isn’t his fault that he is late. He had been busy tying up loose ends. “How do you know this dude will show up today. From all the vague shit Jax has told me the dude is a total ghost. Completely unpredictable. A loose cannon, if you will.”

“I hear he’s had his eye on this charter for a while. He spent six weeks with San Bernardino which has unofficially given their blessing for him to jump charters. He did a few runs with them and proved himself capable. He’s a doctor with some fancy degree…,” the club’s Vice President re-lays information as he recalls it with a look of general admiration for the stranger. It’s a delicate political process that a club goes through to accept new members. One of only a few critical decisions that must be determined by a unanimous vote. However, bringing in preexisting members from neighboring chapters makes the decision marginally easier as the member in question has already been admitted by trusted allies. The vote to transfer members between regions is normally a direct one.

“Hmm, maybe we shouldn’t vote him in. I’ve got enough cannons running around doing whatever the hell they want as is,” Clay sneered as he bumped shoulders with his Sergeant in Arms to further emphasis his point. 

“You wouldn’t have me any other way." 

“I might change a few things,” Jackson interjects. Tig reaches out past Clay effectively pulling Jackson into a headlock.

While the two are caught up in a friendly wrestling match Clay glances towards the gate. He steps around his more rambunctious counterparts only to move closer towards the exit. The low rumble of a motorcycle engine can be heard fast approaching. “Hey, assholes! Why don’t you join me? Think our newest family member just rolled in.”

A sleek black motorcycle banks hard around a corner to put itself onto the same road as the Teller-Morrow auto parts shop. The driver doesn’t slow down as they dart through the open metal door, circle the parking lot once, and come to an abrupt halt in the center of the factory under the critical eye of the three men who represent absolute authority in the small town of Charming, California. Jackson, who had Tig’s arms pinned above his head, released the older man and moved fast to stand beside Clay to greet the new comer. Tig takes a breath to compose himself, readjusts his dark sunglasses to securely hide his eyes, and sets a stern face as he follows his President and Vice President’s lead. 

The engine cuts off sharply. Those who are working on vehicles in the open garage paused as the bike drove up but were quick to return to their tasks. None having recognized the bike or person operating it assumed that it was a member of the residing club they had yet to meet or one from a distant charter who had arrived for a visit.  
A long tapering leg clad in blue skinny jeans tucked into heavy leather combat boots sporting a one-inch heel with the laces synched tightly around the ankles kicks out a stand attached to the side of the bike. This action leading the driver to lean the machine to the left before releasing their grip on the handlebars.

Clay is hardly phased by the driver’s noticeably smaller frame to the men who stand in comparison. “I trust the ride was a smooth one. I know you traveled some distance to…”  
Clay’s voice trails off as the figure dismounts, whipping off a solid black bucket helmet which had previously encompassed their entire head. The figure reaches up with a single hand to pull gently on a ponytail causing their flaxen yellow hair to fall to their shoulders. The driver hangs the helmet off one handle and removes earbuds from both ears at the same time only to let the fall haphazardly still faintly producing music. The individual unzips the leather jacket they wear, relieving the pressure on their ample bust in the process, to retrieve a folded document in one of its inner pockets. The figure nears the trio with confident strides to place the paperwork directly into Clay’s hand. 

“Clay Morrow.” Each man remains firm as they try to mask their surprise at the form they were not expecting, but rather had been presented with. It is the sultry voice produced by the woman that finally leads them to speak. 

“That’s me. I, uh, well I gotta ask,” Clay huffs a laugh. “Are you the transfer?”

“Doctor Meredith Schuyler, but you can call me Sky. Two charters, fourteen hundred miles, and seven weeks between home and my end goal. Those are the transfer papers signed off by SAMTEX. Honestly, I’m glad I found this place. You blink, and you miss the turn off into the town.”

“That’s the point. All the easier to keep a low profile darlin’,” Jackson reflexively responds. He regrets his choice in words the moment the syllables leave his mouth.

“Jackson Teller, right? V.P. And I guess that makes you Trager,” Schuyler easily identifies each of the ranking officers of the club from the descriptions she had been previously given as well as the patches on the front of their kuttes which label them with the titles. 

“You can call me Tig. That is, if you stick around long enough. What are you riding?” Tig asks smugly, hoping to catch Schuyler off guard.

“This old thing.” She turns to look over her shoulder towards her bike. “It’s a ’06 Harley Davidson VRSCD Night Rod. It’s an electric start with a wet clutch, 5 speed transmission, and a liquid cooling system. Fuel capacity’s a little under 4 gallons. But don’t let that spiel fool you. I know what I need to know about what I’m riding. I get a new bike, I learn all about it, and forget everything I knew about the last one. I’m not going to be able to tell you much or anything about whatever y’all are traveling on.”

Clay disguises an interrogation question in the form of a joke. “Well, I guess that disqualifies you from working in the garage?” 

“It’s not like I don’t know my way around a car, but I already have my day job sorted. Dropped off my resume on my way in.”

“And where exactly did you drop it off? Just in case we ever need to keep tabs on the place.”

“Overton Ridge Highway Clinic on the edge of town. They just happen to be looking for a replacement veterinarian. I believe they’ll be very impressed with my resume.”

“You seem confident,” Tig presses, shifting from one foot to the next.

“Pretty confident.”

“That’s a full-time gig, is it not?” Jackson is next to question. 

“I cased the place ahead of time. It’s the most flexible clinic around. There are two other doctors on staff. I’ll work the shit shift for a month or two, no questions asked. I’ll be established in next to no time then be able to demand they give me some leeway on my schedule. You just call me up whenever you need me, and I’ll get out of there as soon as I can slip away.”

“That’s assuming we need you at all.” Tig tilts his head forward as he delivers the threat then back and away from the conversation trying to appear as flippant as possible.

Schuyler looks for a moment as if she wants to reply before thinking better of challenging the SA and settles for returning Clay’s gaze instead. 

“How about,” Jackson steps in to relieve the tension, “You head into the clubhouse.”

“Yes,” Clay is quick to agree. His smile revealing large blocky teeth tinted the lightest possible shade of yellow. “The place is yours, so make yourself comfortable. Free range. Except the chapel. I’m sure you can find some friendly faces milling around. Go mingle. Church will be held in a day or two and I’ll call a vote to see if you make the cut.”

“If I were you, I would take the next couple of days to really get to know some of us. After we finish here, I’ll come in and we can have a face to face. Give you your due time to present your case to me,” Jackson advises with a good-natured wink. He would have given similar advice to any transferring member and has been known to give prospects he sponsors similar speeches, but he knows how important it is for Schuyler to take initiative and make friends prior to the vote being held. 

“Sure thing. Thanks for having me. I look forward to meeting you all. Even you, sourpuss,” Schuyler says while walking backwards towards her bike. “Can I park in the lineup or is that off limits till church too?”

“No, have at it. Find a spot and squeeze in. Near the end should be good. Only since you’re new,” Jackson suggests. 

Schuyler straddles her bike once more. She backs into a spot at the very end of the lineup next to a white motorcycle that she takes time to admire. 

“Do you have a kutte,” Clay asks. He notices the leather she is wearing doesn’t have a single patch. The woman nods in his general direction. “Best to put it on. Guys in there might take more kindly to you and not start off with the wrong intentions.”

Schuyler nods again, understanding the need specific to her to be cautious during the first few days of her transition. She pulls her official club vest from a bag hanging off the back of her bike. She shakes it out and holds it in her hands reading “TEXAS” in a faded black and white patch along the bottom hem. She is hoping to see it read “California” by the end of the weekend. She twists the leather around her body and slides it over both arms at once hoping she looks as seamless as she is attempting to appear in front of the ring leaders of the Mother charter. Her steps remain confident as she enters the bar.

“What the hell was that Tig?” Jackson demands as soon as Schuyler is out of ear shot.

“What, I’m the only one thinking it? Why didn’t you tell us it was a damn chick? That’s some pretty serious information to keep to yourself. Shit’s gotta break some sort of bylaw.”

“I didn’t know. Our brothers never described her as anything, but reliable. They only ever used the name Schuyler. I guess I assumed.”

“Well you know what they say about assuming,” Clay quips, “And we all looked like asses. This wasn’t no accident. Listen to me. If she’s as good as the rumors and Uncle Tom, Original Nine, himself say she is then we all have to give her a chance to prove herself. That includes you, asshole.”

“Hey, if I had had a heads up I would have been on my best behavior. I swear,” Tig tries to defend himself in vain.

“You thinking about testing her somehow?” Jackson asks, worried by the very thought.

“No, but I want you specifically to get to know her. Sus her out. See if she’s got what it takes to bare the Reaper.”

“Someone thought so. She’s been a patched member in her home charter for nearly a decade. Her father was also Original Nine and let her take charge while he was laid up,” Jackson points out. 

“So, you’re telling me it was the dying wish of her old man that got her patched? We haven’t seen that she can do what the other patches say she can,” Tig counters harshly. 

Clay shakes his head and rubs his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. “It’s a club decision.”

\---------------------------

Schuyler steps through the front door getting out of the harsh midday sunlight that hangs overhead. Inside she is met with a very average looking bar with pool tables and dining tables covering the floor. The immediate difference between this bar and ones she has previously been in is made obvious to her when she spots a wall covered with framed pictures of what are presumably mugshots of over a dozen men. They hang beside a set of heavy wooden doors she knows that lead to the club “chapel”. It’s the spitting image of the bar she left back in Texas and smiles already feeling at home.

She continues forward until she is parallel with the end corner of the bar in the heart of the club. There she sees a group of four men sitting on either side of the counter dressed in varying degrees of leather and visible ink talking quietly amongst themselves. A young Puerto Rican man with a finely shaved mohawk and tribal tattoos on either side of his head is standing behind the bar. He seems to be the most similar to Schuyler in terms of age and happens to be the first to notice her arrival. “Hey, are you lost?”

The question proposed wasn’t intended to be malicious but asked out of pure curiosity. Schuyler makes a point to turn her entire body until the top-rocker is visible to the men at the bar. “Teller-Morrow, right? Pretty sure I’m in the right place.”

“Holy shit,” the same man mutters to the rest of the group, “Guys it’s her. She’s the transfer. Holy shit. I didn’t know…”

“That’s how I like it. My reputation precedes me and my gender. Leads to so many fun faces like the ones looking at me right now.”

“Why don’t you pull up a stool and have a seat with us?” Another man who is obviously the largest in terms of weight with long graying hair suggests while patting a seat next to him in the middle of the small group. A ‘Secretary’ flash is sewed onto the upper right side of his vest. This being a visual signal to Schuyler that he is the final ranking official that she needs to identify. “Get to know us a little. I hear you are joining us all the way from Texas.”

“Hope my accent didn’t give it away. I’ll stand for now, but thanks.” Schuyler waves a hand as she dismisses the stool acknowledging that it had been left vacant to create a socially acceptable distance between the man who had offered it and the youngest male of the group with short blond hair. She has no intention of filling that space between the two strangers. Her arms remain at her sides and she is careful to keep her stance open. “Born and raised, unfortunately. Try not to hold it against me.”

“My name Is Bobby Elvis. This here is Chibs. The smart one over there is Juice,” The man who introduced himself as Bobby points around the bar counter clockwise introducing each of the men in turn.

The man with the skull tattoos named Juice offers a friendly wave, “Hey, how’s it going?”

“And this here is Prospect.”

“Name’s Kip, but my friends call me Half-Sack. I just started prospecting.”

“Isn’t Kip already a nickname?” Schuyler asks. “How do you get from that to Half-Sack?”

“Oh, right. I served time in the armed forces,” Half-Sack begins to explain as he slides off the stool and his hands reach towards his belt. 

“Ah, Sack, she doesn’ need a visual presentation,” the man who had yet to verbally express himself finally speaks up. Schuyler is genuinely jarred when she registers a prominent and unmistakable European accent come from the originally quite man. Upon further inspection, she’s equally surprised to find two pronounced scars just a millimeter shy of being perfectly identical following the curves of the man’s cheeks. The indentions are positioned in such a way as to both highlight the man’s cheeks and draw attention to his mouth outlined by a thin goatee all at once. She finds herself wanting to ask the man questions to hear his voice once more and see how exactly the scars move while he speaks, but rather realizes she is staring and quickly rolls her eyes to come back to herself. Hoping she hadn’t been to forward, she pretends to be especially interested in the veteran’s story and focuses on the prospect who had begun speaking quickly once more. 

“Right, anyway. I served some time and got my left nut blown off in an Iraqi mine field. Hurt like hell for the longest time, but it healed quicker than you might expect. It’s more impressive than it sounds,” The young blond finishes explaining as he once again perches on the stool. 

“Sounds intense. Medical discharge?” Schuyler questions. 

“No, I just finished my enlistment in a low maintenance sector and decided not to resign. I survived the remainder of my time, but I didn’t want to risk ‘righty’ with a second deployment.”

“I think that’s fair.” 

“Didn’t quite get your name yet miss,” the man called Chibs points out. This comment once again brings the conversation back to the subject of the sole female in the room. Schuyler knew to expect constant attention and careful tiptoeing treatment around her until the members became accustomed to her presence. It would be exactly like how she was treated the first few days she was in San Bernardino, but even with this knowledge she is still no more excited to be receiving such unflattering attention. 

“Schuyler. Feel free to call me Sky,” saying her own name out loud causes Schuyler to become hyper-self aware and she didn’t know if it was appropriate to include the fact that she is a doctor which led her to leave that information out. “Nice to meet everyone.”

“Hey, is it true you can throw knives. Like, really well,” Juice suddenly asks, making no attempt to hide his enthusiasm. Schuyler knows he expects a performance to follow.

“Little forward, don’t you think? You see, anyone can throw a knife with any sort of force,” she states evenly as she very nonchalantly reaches down to the holster holding 3 knives exactly 6.5 inches in length strapped securely to her mid-thigh to remove one from its constraints. “It takes a person of true talent and precision to accurately throw a throwing knife.” 

As Schuyler explains this, she releases a sleek black knife, seemingly without appearing to aim, from her slender hand sending it flying smoothly through the air, over Half-Sack’s left shoulder, to land securely in the center of a dart board hanging over the end of the bar. 

“Oh, that is seriously dope,” Juice said in awe as Schuyler walks to the wall to retrieve the knife. She holds the knife aloft in her right hand weaving it through her fingers in one direction and then the opposite before replacing it in its sheath in a single fluid motion. “What are you drinking? I’ll get it for ya.”

“Jack and coke. Neat. Thanks.” 

“Alright,” Juice moves further down the bar to prepare the drink as Schuyler returns to her originally chosen floor space between Bobby and the prospect.

“Now you’ve done it. He’s interested in you,” Bobby comments in a hushed tone and, as much as Schuyler wants to believe that Bobby is only making a joke at her expense, she knows that the theory is most likely true. 

“Yeah, well, he’s a little young for me. But, uh, what about the Sergeant? Is he really a hard ass or is it just a front?” Schuyler inquires, smoothly redirecting the conversation in her favor. She had spent nearly seven weeks with SANDINO and gained their approval in record time. But she is on the clock with SAMCRO. She needs to learn as much about this new group as she possibly can if she is going to have a chance of earning their approval.

“Tig,” Juice, oblivious to the previous comment that was made about him, returns with Schuyler’s drink in hand and slides it to her across the counter, “He’s weird, but you warm up to him. Or maybe he warms up to you. I’m not sure which.”

“He give you a hard time?” Bobby asks with a knowing look.

“Nothing I can’t handle. Going back to the ‘faces’ I mentioned. He was just caught off guard. I’m sure he isn’t used to that feeling,” Schuyler explains. 

Chibs once again speaks up, “Tiggy is a character for sure. He can be an asshole, but he’s a good egg and carries that badge with authority and pride.” 

“That’s reassuring. Truly, it is. Sergeant is a demanding role and not everyone can handle it.”

“Tig was born for it. He’s a freak,” Half-Sack throws in with a laugh and everyone in the circle, including Schuyler who is used to initiating prospects in her own chapter, turn to give him a stern look. He immediately knows a mistake has been made and tries to correct it. “But like, in a good way. You know, like a compliment.”

“Shut up Half-Sack or you’ll be out there on your knees shining my bike. Again,” Chibs states. The sentence comes out harsh due to his accent, but his eyes shine in a way that conveys he is making a joke. 

Schuyler has a 50-50 chance of guessing the older gentleman’s nationality correctly by accent alone. “Scottish right? Like, proper.”

“If by proper, ye mean born in the Motherland, then yeah. I’m properly Scottish,” the man with short and messy brown hair replies sarcastically. Schuyler can’t prevent her eyes from flicking down to watch Chibs’ scars shift as he answers her. The indentions only made more prominent when he leaned into some choice syllables to further exaggerate his accent. 

“The hell are you doing over here on this side of the pond with us simple folk? If you don’t mind me asking,” Schuyler makes a point to meet his brown eyes as he answers her next question with an equally sarcastic reply.

“Ye hear that lads? She must think I’m royalty. About damn time if ye ask me!”

That remark brought a laugh out of the group. Schuyler graciously laughs along letting the comment wash over her. Jokes at her expense are to be expected after all. Not only in this type of association, but with her being a transfer she’d be patched into the charter immediately as opposed to prospecting first. Each man had to get his licks in on Schuyler while he still could. As the laughter dies off, Schuyler makes an attempt to continue the conversation by remarking, “I guess I just mean I don’t think much of the folks back home. Not the ones outside my club anyway.”

“Well there’s yer answer. I’m running. Just like you,” Chibs confesses, very honestly, as he leans his full weight on leather clad forearms against the bar and his demeanor becomes very serious.

“I can certainly respect that,” Schuyler replies with a nod of her head that she hopes conveys understanding and respect. The Scotsman pulls himself back off the counter and picks up a glass beer bottle that had been sitting beside him a foot away. He knocks back what is left of the brown liquid and chunks the empty container into a trashcan somewhere underneath the bar.

Schuyler interprets the action as a visual cue to pick up her own glass and start drinking. Treating the exchange as a test she maintains eye contact to avoid appearing intimidated. Only after retrieving the glass that is intended for her from the bar does she avert her eyes. Everyone in the group takes a silent moment to sip on their drinks. It is during this silence that Tig barrels into the bar demanding a drink of his own. “Prospect, get up!”

“Beer, Tiggy,” Juice asks without waiting for a response from the older member as he moves around Chibs to travel to the other side of the bar where the fridge is positioned. 

Tig sits where the prospect once was effectively pushing the younger man a stool further down the bar. “Any reason you’re standing,” he asks the woman who had still refused to sit on a stool.

“Asserting my dominance. Don’t I look intimidating?”

Clay walks into the bar just as the door closes from the dramatic entrance. He travels through the clubhouse and closes himself into the chapel without offering a word or glance to anyone around him. Jackson appears a single step behind him and approaches the group with purpose. “Schuyler. Got a minute?”

Schuyler steps even further away from the group of men and waits to see which direction Jackson will move in before attempting to follow. Jackson walks straight through the ravine she creates only to wander down a hallway leading further into the clubhouse. Schuyler follows suit. 

“Beautiful thing isn’t it,” Juice asks, watching the pair disappear into one of the hidden rooms in the back. “Two blondes walking away?”

“Hey,” Bobby states firmly. “That just might be your future sister you’re talking about. Have a little respect.”

——————

Jackson holds a door open for Schuyler to pass through ahead of himself. Schuyler elects to lean on the nearest piece of upright furniture and faces the room at large prepared to answer an assortment of questions no matter how objectionable to ease any concerns the Vice President may have of her. 

Jackson, comfortable in his surroundings because he has spent the last several months living in this very apartment room, sinks heavily on the corner of the bed. He taps an area of the mattress a short distance from where he sits as an offering. Schuyler willingly sits this time, though she rests six inches further from where Jackson had suggested. 

Schuyler leans her back against the headboard and decides it is better for her to break the silence. “Are we having a slumber party?”

“Something like that,” Jackson begins. He turns his body to rest his left leg on the mattress ahead of himself. He faces Schuyler head on unsure exactly where he wants the conversation to begin or conclude. “You’ve built quite the reputation for yourself. You impressed SoCal. I think every charter from here to Belfast knows your name. But how many members outside of your charter have met you? How many of them know your face?”

“How many know I have such a nice rack?” Schuyler offers. 

Jackson can’t help the laugh that escapes him, surprised by the woman’s frankness. “Sorry. Was I staring?”

“Only an appropriate amount considering you didn’t know your new ‘brother’ would have one,” Schuyler replies good naturally. “My father knew that it was a risk to his authority by patching me in without running the idea through other charters first.”

“Then why take the risk? Why not take it to a bigger table?”

“Because he was being selfish. He didn’t want to challenge any bylaws. He knew it would be impossible to change the club’s more outdated opinions of women over night. He just wanted an exception to be made for me.”

Jackson ponders the information. “Did he see any backlash?”

“Not for the first 16 years or so. Right before it came time for me to start prospecting a few of the men voiced their doubts. Ten years later, they were asking me to lead after my old man turned to ash. How’s that for irony?”

“How did you keep it a secret for so long? How old are you, twenty-five? Seems word would have gotten out, eventually. If not from inside the club then elsewhere.”

“Twenty-eight actually. How many grown men do you know would admit to having their ass handed to them by a chick?” Schuyler asks unable to hide the smug grin that creeps onto her face.

“That how it went down?”

“And I’ve got witnesses to prove it. If I showed up to enough drops our associates just became accustomed to my presence. It’s when I stated talking that problems arose. But I’ve got a real winning personality,” Schuyler explains with a knowing look. “Any enemies we made were easily persuaded to keep from spreading rumors. I’m not sure how closely you keep track of members locations, but if you go back and look at records you’ll find that people transfer out of SAMTEX but never transfer in. My father’s passing was the first instance when outsiders were invited to Valor. Even then, I invited Original Nine only. You think you’re hidden up here in Charming? We’re off the grid.”

“And that was all for you? The great secret of SAMTEX?” Jackson questions intently. He expects there is more to the story that has yet to be revealed.  
Schuyler knows that it is best to prevent joining the club with any secrets left to be discovered. “There were a few people who knew. I’ve never meet them. I’ve only ever heard the names. But I know they were real close to my dad. Piermont Winston. And your father, JT.”

Jackson’s face drops, confused. “My dad? He’s been gone for years, but Piney is still in this charter.”

“Edward used to tell me stories of when they were in Vietnam. How he wouldn’t have made it back to my mom without their help. He was never shy in admitting that they were the two people he trusted above all others. And that’s why he told them the night I was born.”

“JT sanctioned your patching.” 

“My father would have never made the decision without his counsel. He knew going behind the Mother charter’s back would have been treason and he wasn’t willing to risk his club or his friendships. The way it was told to me is he annoyed your father for a couple of weeks until he was forced to agree.”

“Agree to what?”

Schuyler looks about her surroundings as if the answer is made obvious by her very presence. “JT gave me a chance. I wouldn’t be sitting here if he hadn’t allowed my father to raise me immersed in the charter. I knew how to fire a gun before I knew how sex worked. I knew how to balance on a motorcycle before I ever put a car into gear. My friends were the boys I prospected with. I was groomed for this club from the very day I was born.”

“Then why not tell everyone after you patched in? There was no risk,” Jackson is trying to rationalize why his father would keep such a big secret and such a big part of his life from the rest of his club.

“Well, I guess it was part of the deal. JT agreed that it would be a decision made by SAMTEX to patch me or cast me aside. When the time came…I guess my dad just didn’t want to rock the boat. It was a decision made in the wake of JT’s passing when big changes were happening club wide. And even though his name still carries a great deal of weight he wouldn’t have been there to support Edward’s ruling. Why ruin a good thing?” Schuyler pauses to gauge whether the man sitting across from her is following her stream of consciousness. “You say Piermont is still around?”

“Yeah.” Jackson is still processing the information in his own time. “He’s not here tonight but should be around for church.”

“Then you know he supported our fathers’ decision to keep me in the dark. I think they assumed the rest of the club wouldn’t be prepared to answer the challenge my joining brought to the table with an outcome that either my father or I liked.” Schuyler makes a conscious decision to lead with total honesty. Without the trust of the V.P she has no chance of gaining the other members’ votes and joining their ranks. “I think the real reason my father never let the secret out is because he feared losing me. He didn’t want me to be an outcast from the only family I’ve ever known. He always thought that the club was the only thing keeping me close. He had rather of seen his only child barreling down the highway with a Reaper on her back than to bring it to a larger table,” Schuyler grows more quiet the longer she speaks hoping that the man who she has just met will understand her plight.

Jackson can sympathize with the woman he sits across from. Though JT passed away fifteen years previous, Jackson still remembers him fondly and tries his best to honor his father’s memory by living in the club he had built from scratch. After some quiet contemplation he dips his head low to indicate his recognition of the need to make a parent proud. “I think,” Jackson says, breaking the silence, “if you tell the guys down the hall that exact same story none of them are going to have a problem honoring your father’s wishes. Considering all he did to establish history for the Reaper.”

“Thank you for hearing me. I’m sure you’ll hear my case several more times, but I’m glad I could tell you directly,” Schuyler stands and offers her hand to Jackson. He, too, stands from the bed and positions himself to be toeing with the shorter blonde. He takes her hand in a firm grip that she tries to meet with equal intensity. 

“I look forward to getting to know you and I hope you find what you’re looking for with SAMCRO,” Jackson states, verbalizing that she indeed has earned his vote to join his chapter. He gestures towards the door for the two of them to leave the same way they had entered. “Nice grip. Needs some work though.”

The two newly acquainted companions return to the main room of the clubhouse intent on rejoining the conversation which had gravitated towards a new discussion since the duo had departed. The group has since grown, now including Clay who is sitting in comfortable silence at a table on the floor overlooking the group’s light banter. He is joined by a man who must certainly be the eldest of the group if his thinning hairline and the oxygen tubes in his nostrils are anything to go by. The chatter didn’t falter, but merely continued at its leisurely pace and the only man to notice Jackson and Schuyler’s return is the new addition to the group that Schuyler has yet to meet. 

The man looks as though he has been not-so-patiently waiting. The look of awe that falls upon his wrinkled face is only comparable to that as if he had seen an angel. He unsteadily gets to his feet, clutching a black bag tightly to his side that connects to the oxygen line he is breathing, and shuffles forward in an attempt to meet the woman he seeks to speak with. His movements soon gather the attention of the rest of the members causing all communication to cease. 

“Hey Piney,” Jackson greets the elder as he joins Clay at the table. “Didn’t think we’d be seeing you ‘til church.”

“Well that was almost true. Until I was told the name of the transfer from Bobby last week. You couldn’t keep me from being here to welcome Eddie’s only child into my club.” Piney answers with a gravelly voice that matches the portable oxygen he carries. His words are sincere as he comes to a halt just inches in front of Schuyler. “Look at you. You have his smile.” 

Schuyler studies the man up and down trying to place his face. The way he is speaking suggests that he knows her unlike any other member. She is quick to conclude that she has never met the man personally but offers a smile upon recognition of the ‘First 9’ patch on his vest that is so similar to the one that her father wore on his own. “Do I know you, friend?”

The old man smiles sadly. “But your voice is all Sammy. No, I don’t guess you would. My name is Piney Winston. I’m a member of the Original Nine. When we were dispatched John, Edward, and I, we built this club from the ground up. And when all the plans fell into place, he moved back to Texas to be with your mother. SAMTEX was the first attempt to create a branching charter and there was only one-man JT trusted to lead so far from ground zero. Sammy, her home was Texas, and Eddie’s home was with her. But he never forgot SAMCRO. We kept in touch until the very year he passed. I still call Sammy every couple of weeks, but I haven’t seen either of them since John passed.”

Schuyler’s own smile wavers. “Mom still has the pictures from dad’s service days. I grew up with stories of you and John. My parents were real broken up about his passing. Condolences.”

Piney laughs. It’s a miserable sound that escapes him. “John was a very long time ago…Eddie, was not. I’m sorry I couldn’t make the wake, but I told your mother I was no longer up to such a long ride. There’s so few of us left…I was a lot younger in those photos you would have seen.”

“I reckon he was thinner too,” Half-Sack comments in what he probably meant to be a whisper, but it was not. Chibs reaches across the bar to smack the back of the much younger man’s head to silence him as the emotional meeting continues. 

“Yes,” Piney acknowledges, “Younger and thinner. It’s your time to lead.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Tig interrupts the quiet moment between the two mourning individuals after such a hefty claim is made. “Let me get this straight? You knew the whole time.”  
Piney responds, his eyes unwavering yet wet as he speaks directly to Schuyler, “I remember the call I received the night you were born. Neither of your parents wanted to know the sex until you arrived. Eddie cried in relief over the phone to me that he would have the privilege to raise a level-headed girl instead of a rambunctious boy like John and I raised.”

A smile returns to her young face. “There’s a reason he didn’t try again for a boy. I was enough for him to handle.”

“I bet you were! Come on. I want to hear about Valor. Who’s running things now that you’re gone?”

All the attention in the room is put on Schuyler as she follows Piney to the table. She takes a seat beside Jackson across from the two eldest men of the group and spreads her knees wide while relaxing into the wooden chair. 

“SAMTEX is being overseen by former V.P Ethan Dyer while the V.P patch went to his son.” Schuyler made sure to make eye contact with every man in the room while speaking. “Jesse, my age. Hoping he’ll stick around for a good long while and there won’t be need for another election too soon. His number one priority is to keep the club current. I know him well and endorsed him for the position. It turns out he was the best choice. I stuck around long enough to see things put into order. Then I took off. Been wearing the same kutte, but in truth I’ve been living Nomad. Don’t know if you heard Piney, but I spent something like two months with SoCal getting to know those folks before landing here. Hoping this is where I’ll be staying, at least for a while.”

“I have a question,” Bobby asks suddenly. “Did you ever hold office?”

“I was up for Secretary a few years back. But ultimately, we decided we were pushing our luck as it was. The compromise we came to was that I would never be an officer.”

“And you’ve made peace with that, have you?” Clay asks gruffly. He avoids Piney’s gaze when asking the question, knowing the old man already has his heart set on seeing his military friend’s child in the charter beside his own son. He instead settles for meeting Tig’s scrutinizing gaze, making it evident that he still doesn’t trust the unfamiliar body occupying the clubhouse. 

“Much to my mother’s dismay. She always hoped that I would take over from my old man. She still has a picture of me sitting in the president’s chair that my father took when I was, oh, 10. Me, I never really wanted the responsibility. Not that I couldn’t handled it; It was just never the priority. It was hard enough to earn a kutte. I didn’t think much about what could come after. Maybe I’ve become complacent. Maybe I’ve just accepted the role I was born to play. I belong in this club. My rank doesn’t have any sway over that fact.”

Clay remains resolved as he absorbs the information. He faces Schuyler across the table from himself. “That’s very mature. Not everyone gets to be the boss, but everyone has a job. Knowing the job and doing it holds this club together.”

“Sammy wanted you to be President?” Piney asks tentatively.

Schuyler sighs. The only way she would be accepted is if she told the absolute truth. “I realized not long before my father passed, while he wanted me to be a member, he still wanted me to find my own way. That’s why he pushed for college. I chose a major that was vastly removed from the life. While I know my father loved the family he created in Texas there was always a part of him that wanted to come back here. He intended to take me on a road trip that would lead us here and start me off on the right foot with you all. Then he got sick and it never happened. He didn’t have to say it. Edward Schuyler wanted me here.”

———————

Clay calls for church to take place two days later. The current club members drop their phones one by one into an empty cigar box on the nearest pool table while each making their way through the wooden doors to take their respective seats around the redwood table that bares a reaper carved into its center. Clay is seated at the head of the table with his right hand resting against the surface next to a gavel. With everyone seated, and the doors closed, he picks the wooden tool up off its stand and slams it down hard creating a fierce noise signaling the start of the meeting.

Tig is to his right confident in his SA chair across the table from Jackson who fills the V.P seat. Bobby takes up quite a bit of room at the designated Secretary chair with a folder filled with paperwork in an assorted variety preparing to take notes. The remaining members are sat where they naturally landed in their seats. The group forms a relatively small table with a seat even being left unoccupied. 

The prospect, who is not yet a full patch member, is left to keep Schuyler company outside of the chapel as the meeting is held and, inevitably, the vote for Schuyler’s fate is tallied. 

Clay leans back heavily in his chair and looks around the table once before he begins conducting business. “Let’s start with something simple. Treasury. What’s the damage this month?”

Bobby is quick to shove on his reading glasses and reply, “All bills paid. Bar’s stocked. Preorder placed, actually. The uh, “Run-fund” is covered for the next two months. Not bad overall. Tig’s the only man who owes me dues.”

Tig raises his arm over his head in acknowledgement then scratches at his brow with his thumb. “A little short. Catch you next week.”

“Good. Let’s not forget,” Clay states. “Niners are expecting to receive some new hardware this week. Drop happens Thursday. I’m going to need everyone there to make sure the trade is handled quick and painless.”

“Maybe Schuyler would be willing to help us out with that shipment,” Piney rasps from the mirrored end of the table.

“Maybe Oldman,” Clay squares himself against the table and places his palms out in front of himself. “There’s no more avoiding it. There's a patch from a sibling charter looking to take up roots here in Charming. Everyone’s had an opportunity to meet her. Anyone have any concerns or words of encouragement they would like to bring to the table? If so, speak freely.”

Everyone silently reflects on their experiences with the transfer over the last few days. Each man has his own opinions of the woman waiting in the next room over and none of them are considerably negative. Fewer are outstandingly positive. All but one hold their doubts about voting in the stranger.

Tig is the first to offer a con thinking himself to be the voice of reason in this situation. “Are we going to tell the other charters? I think we should even if she's out. My main roadblock with this is that she was kept a secret. The club has a right to know who’s walking around in the kutte.”

Juice finds himself disagreeing. “Let’s leave that up to another vote. One issue at a time brother.”

“Schuyler should be in on that vote,” Piney pushes. “That decision affects her more than the most.”

Chibs’ speaks, shoving an index finger hard into the surface in front of him. “Whose to say her identity is the only thing she’s hiding. I need to trust those sitting at this table.”

Jackson responds quickly. “During our sit-down Schuyler told me why her identity was kept a secret. She had her reasons, but she was able to look me in the eye and I believed that truth. She’s not hiding anymore.”

Bobby is able to offer a pro. “The way I see it Schuyler’s made a point to involve herself since she got here. She hasn’t done anything to prove her skills we keep hearing about, but we haven’t exactly given her a chance to do so. She's answered our questions and hasn’t given me a reason not to trust her.”

Piney gathers his strength to stand using the table for balance. “Schuyler didn’t get here by accident. She had the approval of 3 Original Nine members long before she began prospecting. JT and I knew to trust Edward’s judgement. He wouldn’t have patched her if she wasn’t worthy of the Reaper. The fact of the matter is a lot of people in Texas are alive and a far better off with her in this club. She brought a lot of change and did her part in her charter. Now she’s here to make that very same difference in Charming. SAMCRO would be lucky to host her and any one of you would have to be brain-dead to vote against her.”

“Anyone else,” Clay asks looking around the table to allow Piney the time to find his seat. When he receives no response he continues, “Let’s go ahead and vote on this. I’ll start. Yay.”

Jackson is next. His answer clear. “Yay.”

Bobby follows his commanding officers’ lead without any forethought. “Yay.”

“I’m a ‘yay’,” Juice states, excited by the concept of a new member his own age joining.

“Hell yes!” Piney exclaims. Then he turns to bore holes with his gaze into the two voters who remain.

Chibs looks to his left as if addressing Tig directly as he still senses his brother’s uncertainty, “I don’t see why not. Aye.”

Tig’s eyes remain on the wooden Reaper in the table that seems to meet his gaze. The silence stretches on as he feels the eyes in the room search him out. The group waits patiently for Tig to deliver the final vote. The feeling of tension rises in the room as the decision is left to him and he ultimately decides to vote with his brothers. “Yep.”

Clay smiles knowingly, “Motion passes. Bring her in!” he demands as he slams the gavel down signaling the end of the meeting.

The table audibly expresses their enthusiasm. Piney thanks his friends for helping him to pass the motion. He moves as quickly as he can to the top draw of a filing cabinet in the back of the room. He pulls from it a brand new black and white stitched patch reading ‘California’ in large letters that he clutches tightly to his chest in two hands as he returns to his chair. Tig feels Clay’s hand clamp down hard on his shoulder as his President encourages him to stand. Tig is the one to open the chapel door and bark a command to the newest edition of SAMCRO. “Get in here.”

Schuyler looks up from her beer, nods to the prospect to excuse herself from the conversation they had been having and stands from the bar stool to walk confidently through the door Tig props open. She walks to the back of the room to face Clay and the table at large.

“A verdict has been reached. Is there anything you’d like to say?”

“I hope its good news. Otherwise, I traveled an awful long way for a round trip.”

“You do realize what your joining this charter will mean?" Clay says. He is instilling the gravity of the situation into all members at the table. "The kind of heat it could bring to Charming?”

Jackson adds somberly, “It won’t be easy. I’m can’t promise that any one of our buyers will be as welcoming as we are.”

“Do you assume I had it easy back home? Trust me. It was hell to earn that vote. We went weeks without revenue from our more lucrative sources when I first started prospecting. Fortunately, I’m a big girl and have dealt with my fair share of unhappy clients. It’s easier for me to face the world in this vest than to do it alone.”

Clay resigns to sigh heavily as he stands from his seat. “Well in that case. If you’re willing to face opposition…”

Piney presents Schuyler with the badge. “You’re in.”

Schuyler beams as she receives the badge from the older patch member. The room erupts with boistrus applause as is custom and everyone bolts out of their seats to surround the transfer who has just made history by becoming the first female member of the Northern California charter. She quickly admires it only to stuff it into an inner jacket pocket intent on sewing it onto her vest as soon as possible.

“This is cool,” Juice is the first to say. “Weird, but cool. I’ve never had a sister before.”

“Prospect,” Clay hollers into the bar room, “We need drinks.”

“Welcome to the club sweetheart,” Piney compliments Schuyler as he leans down to give her a hug that lingers for several long moments. She’s taken aback at first as her face clearly indicates, but her smile returns as she hugs the man back just as tightly. During this time, Tig watches from behind his chair distant from the group and examines Schuyler’s behavior.

As the two separate he decides it is his turn to congratulate the woman. “You really made it huh?”

“Looks that way don’t it? Must be my girlish charm. You should know Sergeant. We wouldn’t still be talkin’ if you hadn’t voted for me to stay,” Schuyler brags, taking in a breath trying to make herself appear bigger to the man who is sizing her up.

Tig’s eyes take in Schuyler’s entire form none too discretely and he replies, “Girlish isn’t the word I’d use,” only for his attention to be called to the bar and he walks away briskly as if nothing he said had been suggestive in the least.

Schuyler shakes her head, flattered more than anything, and continues to move about the room to accept warm wishes from the remaining members.

——————

The next morning Schuyler wakes up in the cheapest house she found to rent. With a total of four rooms, the walls are bare, and the building is essentially empty except for basic utilities, a twin sized bed, and a few hastily marked cardboard boxes dispersed throughout. She has yet to unpack any of them as every moment she has spent in Charming has been at the clubhouse. Up to this point she has been living out of a single suitcase. There isn’t even food in the poor excuse for a kitchen. She is hard pressed to recall the last time she ate more than the stale peanuts at TM’s bar.  
Schuyler dedicated over an hour to replacing her “Texas” badge with the new “California” patch along the bottom hem of her club vest. Today she will be trading that very kutte for medical scrubs. Though she had returned home in the early morning hours, she stirs long before she set her alarm to ring. With hours to kill she dresses in her scrub bottoms for their comfort and mobility. Then she busies herself with organizing what little she brought with her from Texas. 

While unpacking, she concerns herself with what to expect on her first day in a new clinic. Since graduation, she has utilized her degree to sew up more bullet wounds in the back of pickup trucks than in any sort of surgical setting. The weeks when she would pick up a shift or two as a relief veterinarian had been few and far in between. She worked out of several clinics around her hometown and while she never became close with anyone on staff, everyone always conveyed enjoyment when working in her company compared to other relief vets in the area. However, this will be Schuyler’s first full time position and she will need to make a concerted effort to bond with the staff if they are going to keep her on the time clock. 

Schuyler’s train of thought is interrupted when her prepaid phone-not her personal iPhone-vibrates on her nightstand. A text flashes on its small screen containing a single address and nothing more. Schuyler is momentarily torn between being late to the first day of her day job and being absent the first time she is summoned by what will ultimately be her full-time job. She resolves to change from her scrub bottoms into black skinny jeans and packs her scrubs in a bag. Never one to compromise, Schuyler is determined to make both. While arriving on her motorcycle isn’t necessarily ideal for the practice, she can change into her uniform at the clinic. Driving her Harley to work, in fact, can be used to subtly drop the hint that while she will always live up to her promise to the hospital, she has responsibilities to attend to outside of office hours.

\----

Schuyler rides twenty minutes out of her way and ten minutes out of town until she comes upon a small clearing. She parks her bike facing towards the only exit. A single dirt road leading back into town. She removes her helmet to survey the scene.  
Four motorcycles are parked amid half a dozen response vehicles including a single firetruck. The reason for the firetruck is made clear by the sheer amount of destruction that scatters the plot of land. It appears as though a large building once stood in the center of the clearing. What remains is a pile of burned ruble, broken glass, and charred wooden planks. Most notably are the bits of metal and, in some cases, still fully intact firearms that scatter the land and surrounding tree line.  
All four ranking officials stand in a circle around a man in a uniform who Schuyler assumes to be the local law enforcement. The group are speaking in hushed tones about what had caused the fire and money is not so discreetly changed between hands. Schuyler leans back on her bike, not yet willing to make her affiliation with the club known to outsiders, and looks on as the officer leads the men further into the wreckage. He stops to open what once was used as a freezer. She can clearly see all the men gazing down upon something that is hidden in the large ice chest. More words and cash are exchanged, the lid is swiftly closed, and the group disperses. 

Clay locates Schuyler amid the commotion and decides to catch her up on what the destruction of the building will mean to the future of the MC’s business.

As he walks, he pulls a gun from behind his back, using it to gain Jackson’s attention. “Two in the back of the head. Quick and painless.”

“It ain’t easy being king.”

“You remember that.” Clay halts in front of Schuyler. “Glad you could join us. Sorry you couldn’t see the factory when it was up and running.”

Schuyler glances behind him causally to what is left of the club’s primary source of income. She doesn’t have to ask to know that this building was once the location where the club stored their illegal artillery for later distribution. “I’m sure it was a sight to behold. Looks like I came at just the right time. Do tell me there’s a secondary location.”

“Not yet,” Jackson informs her. “And turns out our more valuable ‘product’ has turned up missing.”

“But you’re going to help us get it back,” Clay concludes as he steps up to the woman to clap a hand on her shoulder. The action is gentle, but no less than how he would engage with one of his brothers. 

Schuyler bows her head, but her blue eyes brighten making her appear even younger. “Great. Start me off with a problem to fix. I’m pretty good at that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Schuyler is tentatively patched. She's met the crew and some members are ecstatic while others are less than thrilled. But are her problems just beginning? Find out next week in TROD!


	3. Up in the Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schuyler attends her first meeting, has a brief encounter with a rival group, and is invited to her first nightop. Will she prove that she can hold her own?

Schuyler is on her fourth wardrobe change of the day when she rides into the parking lot of Teller-Morrow at the end of her first eight-hour shift. The sun is beginning to set low as she kills the engine of her V-rod and runs inside the bar shrugging her kutte over a plain black T-shirt as she goes.

Every member of the club, including two new faces she has yet to meet, are once again tossing their phones into a box and stepping over the threshold into the chapel for a mandatory meeting. As she approaches the box she notices the prospect standing behind the bar, busying his hands by cleaning glasses and looking disheartened as he watches members disappear into the room he is prohibited to enter while church is taking place. Clay is standing beside the chapel doors overseeing those who enter making sure they empty their pockets beforehand. He acknowledges Schuyler as she walks in pleased that she avoided being late.

Schuyler removes her iPhone from a jean pocket and places it on top of a growing stack of flip phones that are most certainly meant to be disposable. She’s amused to see she is the only one who owns a modern cell phone.

Tig stalks up behind her, quick to notice the stark contrast between her phone and everyone else’s. “What the hell are you doing bringing that damn thing in here.”

“Take it easy.” Schuyler calmly pulls out her own flip phone from a different pocket of her jeans. She makes a show of placing it in the box next to the smart phone which if turned off to signal to everyone watching that she has a burner and thus is not a security risk. “Why waste data on club shit?”

Schuyler enters, taking in the chapel at large. Unlike the night of her patching, the table is crowded on every side. An additional seat has been added to accommodate the extra bodies that is pulled up to a corner beside Piney. The men are mingling amongst themselves and a few have a cigarette or blunt balanced between their fingers. Everyone is too distracted to notice the face that is out of place. The only seats left empty are at the head of the table. Deciding it best to sit as far from the Presidential seat as possible in respect of the hierarchy Schuyler walks to the polar opposite end of the slab of redwood. 

Schuyler grabs a seat that is pushed out of the way against the back wall and shoves it up to the table filling in the remaining corner beside Piney. The seat is next to Juice who thoughtfully shifts his own chair to make room for the new comer. He is quick to say hello when she sits down and is greeted in return. His action not going unnoticed by the outsider. Piney is kind enough to introduce her to those she has yet to acquaint. Opie, a staggering 6’4” wearing a dark SOA beanie with facial hair like that of a lumberjack, is Piney’s son sitting across the table from herself. And Happy, a patch brother from the Washington charter, fills in the other corner. Names are exchanged, and hands shaken, each creating a clapping sound that rings out above the chatter. Piney offers Schuyler his own blunt which she politely declines. She settles against the wooden backrest, spreading her legs wide, establishing that it will be her seat for the foreseeable future. 

While pleasantries take place, Tig and Clay join the room. Tig pulls his chair out from the table but instead of taking a seat decides to stare down Schuyler from across the room. Rather than allow Tig to start an argument, Chibs grabs him by the wrist and pulls him the rest of the way into his seat. “Easy brother. She’s already here. May as well sit with us.” Chibs acknowledges Schuyler from across the table, rather pleasantly surprised by how easily the woman seems to continue to get under Tig’s usually thick skin. 

Clay shuts the double doors firmly behind himself and calmly approaches his seat evidently in no rush. Once comfortable his eyes land evenly on Schuyler and he waits.

Schuyler scoffs, but speaks plainly. “I haven’t sat away from the table since I was twenty years old. With all do respect, it ain’t gonna happen chief.”

Chibs lets out a boisterous laugh in response to the woman who seems to be taking on the President at her first meeting. Jackson and Bobby are more successful to hide their joy. Piney elbows, a look akin to proud flashing across his wrinkled face, as the rest of the table grins from ear to ear awaiting Clay’s response. Schuyler returns his gaze as if she holds all the cards while simultaneously knowing that she would move the chair and even leave the meeting if she was asked to do so out of respect for her new President’s authority.

“Fair enough.” His hand gravitates towards the gavel slamming the piece of wood against its stand without breaking eye contact. He takes a moment to himself to look around the table that is packed to capacity and commences the meeting with a question. “What’s the Nords roster looking like these days?” 

Bobby has an answer. “Fifteen, sixteen guys. Couple of new kids breaking in. Same extreme hate shit.”

Juice includes, “Still got meth labs outside of Lodi. Selling mostly to truckers.”

Jackson asks between drags on his cigarette, “Think they stepping up?”

Clay replies, “Only two things feel good in the joint: that’s jerking off and thinking about all the shit you’re gonna do when you get out. Darby’s been in there for three years. I just want to make sure all his big-shot dreams ended up in his cum rag and not on his to-do list.” Laughter rises above the table and evaporates into the ceiling. “Bobby tells me you payed his guy a visit. Work your shit out?” Jackson doesn’t respond, rather he looks as if he is biting back rage and is unable to. “How’s his guy doing?” 

Juice, the youngest at the table in charge of handling all of the crew’s technological needs who is able to access hospital data bases, again has an answer. “Fractured cheek, broken nose, left nut,” his hand raises, “swinging solo.”

Chibs starts a drum roll with his hands on the table directed towards Jackson as he proclaims, “Yes, it was beautiful!”

Schuyler, having been at the clinic all day and having only a vague idea of who the Nords are, is trying to play catch up as she loosely follows the conversation. She settles for joining in by slapping her hands on the table until the excitement of Jackson’s assumed victory against a rival ends abruptly by his own cold tone. “Yeah, guy’s lucky to be breathin’.”

“No, you’re lucky he’s breathing. Darby’s gonna to want a sit down to smooth things over.” Clay briskly moves on to the next topic of discussion. “Can we expect any help from up north?”

Happy responds in a very serious tone. “Tacoma can help with replacing the Glocks, but transport would take time. There’s no M4’s anywhere. Washington, Oregon, Nevada. Nobody’s got stock.”

Jackson steps in for reassurance. “We’ll have all the Mayan intel by the morning. We’ll get our guns back.”  
Clay states firmly, “Oh yeah we will…Schuyler,” Schuyler’s eyes dart from her hands in her lap up to the front of the table surprised to hear her name. “Elvis has got a gig this weekend. I want you with us when we retrieve our guns from the Mayans. See how SAMCRO handles external threats. It’ll be a nightop, so I trust it won’t interfere with your personal affairs.”

“That’s a nonissue on my end. I look forward to it.”

Clay’s voice is very stern when he turns to question Opie. “Op, with Bobby gone we need you there to rig the pyro. First thing coming out of the joint. Up for it?”

“Absolutely,” Opie speaks around the weed in his mouth. His hesitant expression is unconvincing. “Anything for the club.”

“We’re glad to have you. Bobby, I want you to take the prospect. Don’t need him mucking up a clean job.” The secretary grunts an affirmative. “Anything else?”

Piney, stuttering, speaks openly. “Yeah, I, I, just wanted to say to Jackson on a club level. Sons of Anarchy: Redwood Original, is here for you. Your father would be proud of the man you’ve become. You know? Every time I see you sitting at this table, well, I, I do a double take.”

Opie leans over to his old man. “’s probably just the weed pop.”

Everyone shares a laugh as Piney coughs through a laugh of his own. “Probably. Yeah, I bet it is…Anyway, whatever you need son. It’s yours.”

Jackson is humble with his reply, making sure to look to Schuyler to include her in his statement. “Thanks, Piney. Thanks guys.”

“Meeting adjourned.” The gavel reunites with its stand.

Everyone stands from their chairs and files out of the chapel. Jackson makes his way over to Schuyler to catch her up on all club business she has missed during the day sure no one else is going to think twice about offering to do so themselves. “Hey, that new patch is looking good on you.”

Schuyler moves slowly, intending to follow everyone else as they slowly migrates throughout the property. She was told she should stick around after the meeting because a party is being thrown and it would be another chance for her to socialize with the club. “Perfect fit don’t you think? Do you mind me asking what Piney was getting so ‘gloom and doom’ about?”

“No, uh. My ex-wife just had our baby boy.”

“That is some pretty terrible news.”

“Yeah…she’s a junkie.” Jackson looks ashamed. “I didn’t know it before, but she was shooting crank the last few weeks. He’s ten weeks premature sitting up in the NICU. He ain’t doing so well…”

“Shit man. I’m sorry. What the hell are you doing here?”

Jackson pauses as if unsure how to answer the question. He offers the same response he has given to everyone else who has asked him that same question since his son was delivered by emergency c-section this morning. “This is where I’m suppose to be. Are you going to let me download you or not?”

“Sure,” Schuyler’s smile is reassuring, “but only if you tell me the story about how you beat the ball sac off of some Nazi-wannabe.”

“Asshole. Found out he was the scumbag dealing to my ex.”

“No kidding? You should’ve killed him.”

The two companions leave the chapel to join the others who are now scattered about the bar. Schuyler naturally gravitates towards the pool table to retrieve her cell phones as she continues to listen to Jackson’s spiel about The Mayans MC, a business competitor of SAMCRO for many years, who were responsible for burning down the warehouse. The conversation is cut short however, by Clay’s loud words, demanding, “What the hell is that smell?”

A response is heard, “I smell it too.” Everyone in the room searches for the origin of the rancid order. Clay answers his own question. “It’s coming from that box.”

“What’s in it,” Bobby asks as he drags it out from underneath the pool table to open it. “What the hell?”

From the box he pulls out what appears to be a deer head, cut off at the base of its neck dripping blood, by its antlers. Everyone’s faces screw up in disgust as the smell of decomposing meat becomes more prominent and Jackson informs Schuyler, “A client of the shop hit it this morning. I told Sack to deal with it.”

At the same time, the prospect pushes through the crowd surrounding the box to claim the deer head. “That’s mine!”

Bobby, repulsed, questions the boy. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“Nah,” he replies sincerely. “I, uh, thought, maybe, you know like as a surprise we could, uh mount it in the clubhouse. Like on the wall.”

“It’s got to be stuffed and treated you idiot,” Jackson insults.

“Yeah. I know that, but um. You know, stuffed with what?”

“Hey Sky,” Jackson consciously addresses her with the name she had asked to be called. The nickname has the effect of making him feel familiar with her and she doesn’t reject to its use. “Think you can help him out?”

Schuyler locks eyes with the prospect replying harshly as to make a point. “I’m a doctor not a taxidermist. And the damn things expired. Get rid of it like you should have done in the first-place jackass.”

Schuyler stalks off to retrieve a drink from the bar leaving the men who are present to marvel at her take charge attitude and laugh at the prospect’s expense. “You heard the lady. Get to it Prospect.” 

\-------

Half an hour later the party is in full swing. Music is blaring loudly over staged speakers and beer is being passed out by the keg. Some of the garage employees are grilling up burgers and scantily clad women are draping themselves over any man that will take them. Nearly a hundred bodies, most who are regulars, are attending yet another one of the frequently held parties at TM. All distant friends, honorary family members, or cliental of the well-established club looking for entertainment.

The main event tonight is a boxing ring. Anyone brave enough to step in is allowed to fight. The current contenders are Tig and Happy, who seem to be an even match for each other, fighting for sport rather than to remove one another from the four-post ring.

Schuyler stands in-between Jackson and Piney in a lineup against the length of the ring watching as the fight commences.

Though this is supposed to be a time of relaxation club business is once again brought up casually in conversation.

“Did Rosin track down any real estate for the rebuild?” Bobby curiously asks.

“Ten acres for sale up north eighty-four. A stretch of industry, paint factories, container yards,” Clay inform, speaking so that the whole group can hear over the clamor. He pauses in his explanation to shout in the direction of the fight to no one man in particular, “Kick his ass!”

Piney offers approval. “With all the trucking and supplies it’ll look like business as usually when we move in.”

Jackson has a look on his face as if he is pondering something he hasn’t before. “What’d happen if we didn’t rebuild?”

The question proposed draws everyone’s attention away from the fight and directs it towards the club’s Vice President. 

Schuyler, seriously considering the proposal, is the first to offer feedback. “A lot of people would be out a paycheck. Not to mention any connections the club has. We’d have to find another way to earn. It’d have to be a fast turn around and the profit would have to be even greater to rule a majority.”

“We could take the land profit from the warehouse and put it into something else?” Jackson explains only to be met by concerned faces questioning his motives. “Hey, I’m just thinking about what’s best long term. We got heat with the Mayans. The warehouse exploding has got ATF crawling up our ass. Might be time to start looking at other ways to earn.”

Clay, appearing even more concerned than the rest, looks to his secretary for assurance before responding in a deflective tone. “There’s a lot of shit up in the air right now. We’ll figure out what the next move is…” Turning his attention back to the ring, he instructs Bobby, “Break that shit up.”

Bobby pulls himself onto the mattress. He ducks under the ropes only to move in between Tig and Happy who have been continuously been exchanging brutal punches. When he is able to get their attention without receiving a fist to his own person the two begin to laugh and hug each other tightly to show that there is no bad blood between them. When they separate, Tig rounds on the audience with the intent of finding his next victim. “Alright SAMTEX. Your turn. I’ll even let you get in the first swing. I won’t make the offer again.”

“That’s my cue.” Schuyler pats Jackson on the back as a means to say goodbye and leaves the group without another word. If Tig challenges her as she walks to her bike the sound is drowned out by the bustling party goers. She pulls the headphones out from inside her jacket and plugs them into her phone for the ride back home.

\---------

The next morning Schuyler is woken up by another text on her burner with a single address on its small screen. A meeting is set for SAMCRO to meet with Darby, the leader of the of a local Arian group who has been known to cause trouble in Charming almost as long as the MC itself has been established. The plan is to meet in a diner on main street to keep everyone calm and prevent a fight from breaking out. Schuyler has been invited to observe the sit down between the two groups.

Schuyler is the last to arrive at the small parking lot outside the establishment. She removes her helmet but decides to keep her hair pulled back and her sunglasses over her eyes. This meeting is about establishing dominance and setting boundaries for an adjacent group. She doesn’t intend to be the cause of any distractions today. Instantly upon arrival, she realizes that a pattern is quickly forming. Each time she has been called to action she has been met by the leaders of SAMCRO. These are trial runs. A way for them to observe her actions and gage the level of pressure she is able to withstand. 

Two of Darby’s men covered in Arian Brotherhood ink are posted outside glaring at the SOA members as they enter. Another is sat beside him squeezed into the window seat of a booth. Jackson enters as soon as he sees Schuyler pull up and he slides into the booth opposite Darby and his right hand. Clay sits next to Jackson to face Darby head on. Schuyler strategically plants herself at the table behind Darby with her legs propped up on the seat in front of her. Her eyes fix on a young waitress with her red hair tied back in a ponytail as she wanders about waiting tables. Tig sits across from Schuyler with his back to the opposition ready to act if the situation takes a turn for the worse. The position also affords him to keep his eyes on the newcomer who offers him a purposefully strained smile in greeting. Bobby is by himself in the seat behind Jackson, not too subtly staring Darby down over his shoulder in an attempt to looking menacing.

“A little something for your guy Darby,” Clay starts off as Jackson slides over a piece to Darby’s backup.

“That’s some serious iron. He’ll like that. Thank you.” Darby sounds as if he is in a rush to get the words out.

Jackson is equally as quick. “Figured we give him something that had some balls.”

Clay ignores the comment. Instead he continues the conversation with a smug air about him. “I know what it’s like running a crew. Sometimes you got to do something without thinking things through.”

“My guys are thinking just fine.”

“They thinking when they sold crank to my pregnant ex?” Jackson spits through gritted teeth.

“That was unfortunate,” Darby’s voice almost sounds sincere. “How’s your little family doing anyway?”

“Uh oh,” Schuyler murmurs under her breath.

In the next moment Jackson is reaching across the table scuffling with Darby. The fight lasts all of fifteen seconds with Tig wrapping his arms around Darby’s second to keep him from injuring Jackson and Bobby pulling Jackson back into his seat. Darby, untouched due to his protective human shield, smiles the entire time. Proud of how easily he was able to make SAMCRO’s second in command react. The fight, however, doesn’t prevent him from hearing a voice outside the group respond to the fight before it even occurred. Though raspy it was still higher in pitch than those of the men speaking and he knows it didn’t come from a casual observer. He refrains himself from turning to find the source but keeps what was obviously a woman’s voice in mind with the intention of finding the source later.

“Alright, alright. Everybody contain your shit. Are you done?” Clay’s question is answered by Jackson who mouths an affirmative reply. He turns to look up and down the length of the diner addressing the other patrons. “Sorry folks. Go back to your corndogs. Won’t happen again.”

Schuyler, sure that her presence has been detected, addresses a family whose breakfast had been interrupted in a hushed tone. “Our bad. Won’t be a problem again.”

Darby renews the conversation. “I made sure the Brotherhood had Opie’s back every minute he was in Chino and you know that.”

“Yeah. I know how it works inside Darby. Question is: you remember how it works outside?”

Darby’s right hand speaks. “A lot changes in three years.”

“A lot stays the same.” Clay clears his throat. “Nothing happens in Charming that we don’t control or get a piece of.”

Bobby makes eye contact with Darby over his should. “If we wanted a meth trade, we’d have one.”

“We don’t,” Jackson growls.

“You know the rules Darby,” Clay states. The use of the man’s name intended to establish mutual respect. “Cook all the crank you want along the border, but you do not deal in Charming.”

“You know we ain’t the only cook shop in town. The devil wants in he’ll get in.”

“Then you’ve got your work cut out for ya. Because the next time the devil crosses the border,” Clay’s tone is threatening as he leans forward to get right in Darby’s face, “I’m coming after you. And next time I won’t send a 357 as a get-well gift.”

Darby lets the information sink in. His face shifts into a smile. “There’s no need to make threats brother. Me and my boys have always managed to make things work with SAMCRO.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.” Clay moves fast, stomping towards the exit of the restaurant without another word.

Before Jackson leaves he gets up from the table to tower over the two men still squished into the booth. He pulls out his wallet by its chain and makes a show of paying their tab. “Milk and cookie on us.”  
Bobby promptly follows leaving Tig and Schuyler to scoot out of their own table. Schuyler attempts to make a break for the door but isn’t quick enough to avoid Darby who calls after her.

“My, my, my. Do my eyes deceive me? I thought I heard an angel’s voice. They must’ve done a good job at hiding you because I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Earnest Darby.”

Schuyler plasters her brightest smile across her face as she rotates on her heels. Darby approaches, closing the gap until Schuyler is toeing with the leader of the Arians.  
“You caught me! My name is Schuyler,” she replies sweetly. She removes her sunglasses to bat her long, dark eyelashes at the older gentleman. She sticks out her hand in greeting but quickly retracts it upon delivering the line: “En chante. Or I’m sorry. Is that, too, exotic for you?” She’s not subtle when she eyes the Swastika tattoo blatantly visible above the lining of the man’s white wifebeater. 

“Not at all,” Darby’s grin is feral as he takes her hand. “You’re a quick one aren’t you? Ow, firm grip you got there.”

“Must be a force of habit. I get a lot of practice,” Schuyler winks.

“I don’t mind that…”

Tig, who remained in the diner when he heard Darby address Schuyler, interrupts the introduction which is turning a little too friendly. “Alright, come on Schuyler. Stop flirting with the neo-Nazi.”

Schuyler pretends to pout as she releases Darby’s hand. She steps backwards towards the only exit. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around Darby.”

“Call me Earnest. I insist. I’ll look forward to it.” Darby dismisses her with a ridiculing wave.

“We don’t always get what we want,” Schuyler grumbles, turning her back on the Nord leader. “Asshole.”

\--------------------

Several hours later Jackson finds himself alone in the clubhouse. He has just returned from Opie’s house with the bag containing enough pyrotechnics to level the plant where the Mayans, thanks to Juice, were discovered to be keeping the artillery that they had stolen from the MC. After seeing the argument that transpired between Opie and his wife Donna over Opie again involving himself in club business, Jackson decided to cover for his friend and handle the rigging of the explosives himself. He’s readies himself for the job in ten minutes flat. Underneath his normal gear he straps on a bullet proof vest as an added precaution preparing for the worst. 

Now down a man, and relying on a fill in for the pyrotechnics, the group is in need of the extra helping hand. Jackson makes sure to call Schuyler directly as to give her a heads up, hoping that she doesn’t have an excuse and need to back out of her first job when Opie already had.

The burner in his hand rings once, then twice and is picked up on the other end. “Yeah.”

“Mayan intel came through. Are you still on for tonight? Opie’s kid got hurt, so Ima need the back up.”

“I just got off,” Schuyler’s voice is low in her attempts to whisper. She’s evidently still at the clinic and likely surrounded by others. “Where?”

“We’re taking the highway outta town. Should pass the clinic.”

“I’ll be there.” The line is dropped when Schuyler hangs up. Jackson appreciates that she was willing to answer her phone even when fulfilling her duties elsewhere. Jackson stuffs his prepay away and turns to look himself over once in the mirror. He pulls his kutte more tightly around his form which has the effect of making him feel secure and he jogs outside to mount his bike. 

After a few minutes alone on the road he finds himself at a stop sign. Clay rounds a corner to pull up beside him. He notices a person is blatantly missing. “Where’s Op?”

The two of them wearing sunglasses makes it easier for Jackson to look Clay in the eye and lie. He raises his voice to speak to Clay over the rumble of the bikes’ engines. “Kid got hurt. Had to take her to the hospital. Got the bag; I can make it work.” Clay is clearly unconvinced. Knowing Opie had his doubts of reentering alongside the club, the timing seems a little too convenient. “It’s all good brother.” Rather than waste time by arguing Clay instead speeds through the four-way intersection without a glance for traffic or pedestrians that could have been in front of him. Jackson looks both ways and continues a car length behind Clay. As they drive they are joined by an additional member every few blocks before the group merges onto the highway that will lead them out of town towards one of the Mayans lesser known safe-houses.

The bikes drift gently following the bend of the concrete as they approach the offramp exiting the clinic. Jackson gradually decreases his speed until he is cruising at five miles under the posted speed limit subtly slowing the group’s progression.

Meanwhile, Schuyler has been idling in the shoulder smoking a cigarette for no longer than a minute when she hears the approach of the motorcade. The wind is in her favor as it carries the sound towards her. She has enough time to stamp out the tube with her heel and right her bike as the last man in the lineup passes her. She falls in line at the back of the company and Clay makes a point accelerate beyond the posted speed limit. She naturally fills the position of drag and gives a nod to Juice who glances back at her. The motion of his hand, which barley leaves the clutch, mimics that of a wave.  
Jackson was careful to avoid seeking Schuyler out when passing the clinic but finds her in his side mirror after she exits the highway at break neck speed to keep pace with the group. 

Driving a few miles outside of city limits the group pulls off to the side of the road. The six of them pile into a black van that had been posted there earlier in the day by the prospect and Jackson drives it the remaining two miles to their destination. A clever way to avoid leaving motorcycle tracks at the scene of the crime.

\-------

“Couldn’t we just hop the fence? It’d be a hell of a lot quicker than this,” Schuyler suggests, bored of watching a hole form in the side of a chain link fence one barb at a time.

Chibs happens to be the one using the bolt cutters to create an entrance into the Mayan’s compound big enough for himself to step through. “Don’t let me stop you. Ima keep at this.”

Juice is first to follow the Scotsman through the fence line. He gravitates towards an electrical box which he promptly destroys with an axe knocking out the plants self-sustaining power system for the added coverage of darkness and to kill any alarms that may have been rigged. It doesn’t take long for the group to find the backdoor to the warehouse. Chibs and Tig form a duel battering-ram causing the not too securely locked door to fly clear off its hinges with both of them landing on top of the door falling flat on the floor in their efforts. “Jesus!”

Flashlights and knives appear in each hand as the team moves quickly from room to room cutting open each and every box they encounter. They are none too careful when shoveling out the contents they find inside. They successfully clear two rooms with no luck of their missing hardware before Schuyler comes upon a wooden crate perched on top a workbench. With force, she’s able to leverage the box open with a crowbar and is pleased with the contents she finds inside. Strings of brown paper serving as packing material for a thin layer of cylindric glass candles. Colorful religious symbols printed on each sharing in a common theme. “Wait to lean into a stereotype.”

Across the room Jackson cracks open a similar crate. He pushes through the top layer and pulls out one of the missing M4 assault rifles. Clay passes over him while shining his flashlight inside the chest. “Praise Jesus, it’s a miracle.”

Schuyler dips her hand deep into the crate pulling out a Glock. “It’s just what I wanted!”

“And I’ve got the rest over here,” Chibs chimes. He is looking into two more boxes of similar artillery that he himself had opened. 

“Get the guns in the van,” Clay barks his orders. “Wire this shithole up.”

Jackson removes the duffle bag from his back to withdraw over a dozen sticks of dynamite and a homemade detonator. He moves to the center of the room to fiddle with wires in an attempt to copy the actions he has observed Opie perform under similar circumstances. Schuyler removes the candles from her crate to lighten the load, closes the lid tight, and sets about doing the same for the chest that Jackson left behind. Chibs perceives her intentions for doing so and instructs Juice to copy her actions with a box in front of him. Chibs kneels down to do the very same with a box of his own. When the crates are ready to move, Juice approaches Schuyler and lifts one end of the crate off the floor. “Help me out, will ya? Careful, lift with your knees.”

She takes the other end and heaves it off the ground with minimal strain. “Worry about your own knees. Seeing as how you’re walking backwards into a door frame.” Juice heeds her warning with a grin and the two end up moving two chests outside together. They take turns with Chibs who helps Tig do the same with two boxes of their own.

When the weapons are stacked neatly in the van with room left for the loaders to ride next to them, Schuyler reenters the building to check on Jackson’s progress. “Guns are loaded. Guys are ready to move when you are.”

Jackson is busy dialing a number into his burner evidently having missed a crucial step in the pyrogenic process. 

The rest of the moving crew joins her and Juice, anxious to leave, demands, “What’s the hold up?”

While everyone is standing around waiting for Opie to pick up Jackson’s call Tig spots movement outside the building. Walking to the window facing the compound’s main entrance he observes an old red pickup pull up to the gated entrance. Two men jump out of the truck’s bed to open the sliding gate allowing for the truck to drive through. Another man emerges from the cab to join them in opening a storage unit just inside the compound while the truck idles next to them with a fourth man sitting behind the wheel waiting patiently while the rest work. It is clear that the men are here to complete a job of their own and won’t be leaving for quite some time. Tig is quick to inform the group, “We got company.”

Forming a plan quickly, Clay again lays out orders to be followed. “Gotta be Mayans. Get the van out of sight. Lay low. You, with me.”

Tig follows suit by leading Juice and Chibs outside to hide the van from view. Jackson gives up trying to reach the man on the other end of the line and stashes his phone away. It’s clear that he has made an error in judgement having decided he could attempt this task on his own and knows that Clay is disappointed. He also knows better than to argue when Clay asks for Jackson to join him. Instead he refers to Schuyler. “Stick with us.”

“Lead the way.”

The new group of three draw their guns nearly in unison. With careful footsteps, they exit the building scaling around the outside until they are facing the truck head on from behind a pile of precariously stacked scrap metals. Clay, leading from the position of point, voices his dissatisfaction. “Shit. We should have been long gone by now.”

Jackson attempts to reason with him. “We’ve got the iron. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Hey, I came to send a message,” Clay reminds Jackson sternly. “Or have you forgotten? Those two wetbacks see that busted down door they’ll call for backup.”

Clay moves as though he is going to step out from behind the makeshift barrier only to be stopped by Jackson’s hand. “Blowin’ shit up is one thing. If we off these guys it could trigger something that runs out of control.”

“That’s the cost of your mistake. Got a problem with making it right?”

Jackson reluctantly shoves his gun in the waistline of his jeans. “I’ll draw them to the dumpster. Cover me.”

Jackson runs past Clay to enter the truck’s field of view. Without being spotted, he picks a blanket off a pile of forgotten lumber using it to cover most of his face and torso. Then he staggers towards the headlights of the truck loudly singing a drinking song with his words slurring to appear drunk to gain the men’s attention. Two Hispanics who abandoned the truck notice Jackson and approach. “Hey Bandito…”

Schuyler sniggers at Jackson’s quick idea of a distraction. “Not as dumb as he looks.”

“The job’s not done yet.”

“…Tell your dirt bag buddies, if they camp out here, they’ll get some of this.” 

One of the men who approached Jackson swings hard at him clocking him square in the jaw. Jackson reels only to draw his gun. He returns a powerful blow breaking the man’s nose with the butt of his gun. The blanket falls to the ground and he points his weapon at the two Hispanics in front of him. Clay charges, shoving his own weapon into the neck of the second man preventing him raising his own piece. Schuyler follows the men’s lead and positions herself several feet away from the group between Jackson and the three other bodies where she can effectively survey the scene with her gun trained towards the Mayans.

“No bang, bang, por favor,” Clay requests. The man lowers his hands in surrender. Clay disarms him while parroting the first man’s words back to him as he shoves the second several paces forward. “Tell your dirtbag buddies, if they steal from SAMCRO, they get some of this.”

Clay shoots the second man in the throat from point blank range and watches as he drops to his knees left to bleed to death. 

Without warning, as if reacting to the gunshot, the truck’s engine reeves to life. The driver inside attempts to pull through the lot by making a U-turn and escape the scene. Clay raises his gun towards the vehicle and follows its path in the air looking down the sight. However, there is no need to do so. Tig appears, seemingly out of nowhere, shouting, “I got ‘em.” He runs out into the open and jumps into the bed of the moving vehicle. He throws himself over the tailgate, kneels in the bed, and shots three bullets through the back window. One was used to break through the glass while the other two burrow into the drivers head. He braces for impact as the vehicle connects with the side of a building. The truck rebounds off the wall with the force of the impact and stops on its own. He proceeds to jump out of the bed to check the cab for survivors, but all he finds is the man he shot and one of the missing M4s, fully loaded. He walks away uninjured to place the assault rifle in Clay’s hand.

“Holy shit.”

The statement is spoken by Juice who appears beside Schuyler a moment later responding to the sound of gunfire.

Two men are now dead leaving one who remains with his nose bleeding from Jackson’s assault. Neither Jackson’s eyes nor his gun stray from the Mayan’s form as he talks out of the side of his mouth to address Juice. “Go check the back. Make sure that’s all of them.”

Clay takes the gun from Tig and gestures with it to send him with Juice as backup. “He’s all yours.” Clay hovers his finger over the trigger of the automatic. His eyes fix on Jackson. It isn’t a request.  
Jackson steps forward pushing the man onto his knees. The man clasps his hands together tightly, closes his eyes, and begins to pray in Spanish. Jackson looks down on him through the sight of his gun only to take pause. The pause stretches on much longer than either Clay or Schuyler expect it to.

Schuyler is ready to lower her own gun until, due to her vantage point, catches sight of a man creeping up from the side of the building the trio had previously emerged from. He trains his gun on Jackson’s exposed abdomen due to the kneeling man’s position and readies to fire. Without hesitation Schuyler hovers over her target tracking him and fires a single shot that brings the man to the ground instantaneously. The bullet enters one side of his head and exits the other leaving blood speckles on the surfaces behind him. 

When she returns her attention to the scene at hand she is met with Jackson’s face of disbelief. “Sorry. Was me saving your life causing too much of a distraction? Please continue. Unless you’d rather I take care of him?”

“No,” And Clay is definitive. “You’ll get your chance to prove yourself. This one is on Jax.”

The short exchange is just enough of a distraction to lead the Mayan on the ground to pull his gun from his jeans with the intent to fire. Clay, however, is much quicker to respond with his M4 already in hand. He lodges three casings into the man’s abdomen sending him to the ground withering and struggling for air. 

“Finish him!”

Jackson, a look of consideration on his young face, reluctantly raises his gun again. This time he aims directly at the suffering man’s head. The man on the ground pants for a moment, twitches twice, and his body goes limp, dead in the dirt where he fell. 

Jackson lowers his gun for a final time and sighs in what appears to be relief. “It’s finished.”

Schuyler holsters her own gun, confused as to why her new V.P would be so hesitant, but glad that the danger is passed. The other half of the group, now including Chibs who is returning from his watch of the van, runs into the clearing of the compound with Chibs hollering all the way. “Ahh, Mary Mother of Christ. I leave you bad boys alone for two minutes and everything turns to shit!”

“Don’t forget bullseye,” Clay remarks.

Schuyler crosses her arms, tucks her hands under her armpits, and rests her thumbs on top of her chest. “Just doing what I was brought here to do. Cover Jax’s ass apparently.”

“You got the job done. Nice work,” Clay somehow manages to make the compliment to the woman also sound like a backhanded insult to Jackson as he is evidently questioning the man’s devotion at this time, even when in front of the other members. 

“Clay!” Tig hollers. He is crouching over the body that Schuyler is responsible for. “Come look at this.”

When the group crowds around the corpse Jackson is the first to speak. Looking down on the body that is distinctly different than the others due to its white skin and Arian ink he notes, “Darby’s guy.” 

Clay muses, “Looks like Darby did make some new friends in Chino.”

Tig can’t restrain himself from commenting, “White boy musta sucked a lot of brown dick.”

Schuyler’s tone is completely serious. “Nords teaming up with color can only mean bad news.”

Jackson explains what it means. “Means doubling their numbers, access to guns…”

Clay adds, “And a common enemy. Us.”

Jackson confirms his train of thought. “Darby wants Charming.”

Without any warning Clay turns the mouth of the gun to the body and mows through it scaring Jackson nearly out of his skin in the process. “There goes the neighborhood.”  
The group returns to the warehouse intent on getting it to blow up one way or another. They work together in teams for the next half hour trying to finish as quickly as possible to avoid any more Mayans who may arrive during the night. The first group composed of Chibs, Tig, and Juice back the truck into a garage attached to the warehouse. They pack all three of the Hispanics into the cab and place the Arian face down in the bed with his pants pushed to his knees. They arrange a sizeable number of explosives in precarious positions about the truck including a stick of dynamite that Tig thought best to place in between the corpse’s ass cheeks. Gasoline is poured on the truck for good measure.

Clay wonders off on his own to empty nearly half a dozen gallons of gasoline found inside the compound into strategic holes of the plant to ensure that every corner of the property will eventually catch fire. Jackson returns to his original task. Draping wires in the rafters and leaving a trail of dynamite about the main room of the warehouse where the guns were originally found. Because Jackson is unable to correctly rig the pyrotechnics for them to self-implode, Schuyler is left walking behind Jackson, placing the candles that she unpacked from the crates wherever he goes. While everyone is set about finishing their tasks Schuyler decides that talking would be the best way to pass the time. She wants to question Jackson about the concerning actions she witnessed him display outside and knows she is more likely to get an honest answer when the two are alone. 

She starts by asking him a very simple question. “How many?” 

“You talking to me?”

She stops walking still holding a candle in each hand. Jackson has made almost no effort to conceal the stress he has felt over the events of the last few days as they seem to be piling up over his head. The most recent event regarding his son who is lying in an artificially created habitation in a hospital room while his father commits arson. Tonight, she has witnessed that stress start to affect his work and that of those around him. “How many times have you pulled the trigger?” 

“Any time I need to. Why?”

Schuyler is patient as she places the candles a foot apart to finish the trail. Distancing herself from Jackson, she returns to the center of the room. There she begins to construct a three-foot-high pyramid with the left-over candles. She does this with the conscious intention of reframing from making Jackson feel cornered and allows him to answer her question in his own time. “How many times has it meant something?”

Jackson stills. This is not be the first conversation of a similar nature he has had in the last twenty-four hours. “If you’re asking for me to put a number to how many people I’ve killed that’s kind of a personal question. How many have you killed.”

“Two dozen. At least.”

“Have they all been a cause of you trying to prove something?” Jackson asks, referring to the body that she created which men outside are preparing to dispose of.

“If you’re referring to my actions which saved your ass from getting shot I will gladly say you are welcome. And I would have put down the second if Clay hadn’t gotten to him first. We both know he wasn’t leaving till they were all dead. If the poor bastard hadn’t acted we would still be sitting in that yard all night waiting for you to make a decision.”

“It didn’t feel right this time. Not now,” Jackson says, and it sounds like a confession. His hands continue his work as if on their own accord. His mind wanders to the infant, to his kid, who he has yet to - no - refused, to visit in the hospital. His only view of his son since he was born less than two days ago has behind a plate of glass. “Maybe Clay’s right. That I’m tripping this guilt shit over my kid.”

“I didn’t think that at all.” Schuyler’s hands work fluidly in unison to stack the cylinders while she is still able to occasionally meet Jackson with honest eyes. “It could be for a million reasons. With everything that’s been going on, concerning the business, your ex resurfacing. I know my patching in hasn’t been easy on anyone. It’s a lot for anyone to handle. The fact that it all happened at once, it’s not surprising you’re rattled.”

Jackson looks up to Schuyler with a genuine look of surprise. After the last forty-eight hours of nonstop harassment and with all the people closest to him expecting him to behave as if everything is business as usual, the fact that Schuyler is willing to speak with and understand what he is going through means something to Jackson in this moment. “You know, I never expected it to work with my ex. Wendy, she was just there, after…after everything. I signed the divorce papers over a year ago. She got clean a few months back and we tried to reconcile expecting a different result. Now I’m here. Not sure how to move forward.”

“Hey man, it’s the same shit just a different day. You continue the way you always have. Though I’m willing to bet going to see your kid would help to put things into perspective.” Jackson’s smile is grateful, and he is able to make a decision. He decides that he will go straight to the hospital to see his kid tonight. Schuyler returns his smile and continues to impart her wisdom. “Look whatever it is you can take your time with it to get right. And not wanting to kill isn’t a bad trait to live with.”

Jackson manages a laugh. “No, it’s not. More of us should adopt it.”

“We don’t kill because we like to. Most of the time we try to avoid it. Maybe you’re right that there was another way out of this. But you have to remember something Jackson. We ride in the gray. And we always have a reason. Even if they weren’t clear to you, I know Clay had his. He wouldn’t have become President if he didn’t know how to make the necessary sacrifices.”

“No, he did not.”

Jackson joins Schuyler in the center of the room to place the last stick of dynamite in the center of a pyramid of candles. Next to it Schuyler sets the final glass cylinder. At this time, everyone else returns from their individual tasks feeling accomplished, though rather tired, and ready to turn in for the night.

Chibs comes back in from the garage spouting off something along the lines of, “The candle’s in the cake,” as he jogs past the two blondes while somehow finding the energy to laugh in the process.  
Clay silently examines the room. His eyes follow the trails of wires to each station of explosives that has been set up. He nods his approval and grabs a random candle off the floor. Everyone stands around and watches as he pulls a match from a pocket in his vest to light the candle and proclaim, “Let’s go home.” There are a few mumbled words of agreement before everyone begins to move, a bit faster than previously, towards the exit.

All except for Schuyler. “Hey Clay?” Clay meets her gaze, appearing more weary now than disappointed in how the evening has proceeded, and waits for her to continue. “Can I light it up?”

“I don’t see why not,” he answers while passing her the glass cylinder. She approaches rather gleefully, the first real expression of happiness she has shown in front of the charter and examines it in her hand. Clay observes her, admiring the genuine smile on her young face at something so simple and a smile of his own forms in response.

“Oh. Do you, want a head start before I get this party started?” She asks Clay. She projects genuine concern in her voice as she eyes the oldest member present. Decades lay between them in terms of age and her smile doubles in size, showing her perfectly straight teeth. 

“Don’t push your luck,” he asserts in a deadpan tone as he jogs to catch up with the remaining members who now crowd the door waiting to see the candle role before running with what little energy they each have left to the van parked just past the property’s fenced border.

Schuyler roars with laughter; her chest shaking with the force. She turns towards the mountain of flammables that she stacked so carefully and with a near perfect technique, sends the candle rolling towards the stack much like a professional bowler would roll a bowling ball with her right hand without even cracking the fragile glass. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!”  
Jackson, being the most athletic, is the first to return to the van returning to the driver’s seat. Schuyler being the last out the door makes an effort to catch up with the men in front of her. She pushes into the bodies in front of herself in an attempt to both encourage them to move faster and to protect herself from the blast. Dashing and knocking into each other partially for fun and partially because they are uncoordinated, the group tumbles down the cement driveway and past the fencing, occasionally throwing a glance over their shoulders every once in a while as a total of six individual explosions are set off across the property. The flames rise high, easily capable of being seen for several miles in every direction. 

The fire is hot enough to cause a burning sensation to develop against exposed skin even from a distance, but the group continues to laugh as if impervious to harm. Clay reaches the passenger side door and opens it to stand up on the car seat and watch in awe as the flames climb into the night sky. Everyone else piles into the back of the van toppling over one another as they attempt to right themselves on the floor. Tig and Chibs mirror Juice and Schuyler. Tig’s left arm rests on Chibs’ shoulder as he rubs his hand over his face to wipe away the sweat that is pouring off him caused by the sheer amount of heat radiating from the devastation. Chibs’ back connects hard with the side of the van and he pants hard appearing as if he will never move again. Juice continues to stare out the front window of the van as the flames are fueled by the oxygen from the cool night air wiping through the building. Although his entire right side is pressed firmly against Schuyler due to the confined space he shoves her against Clay’s seat in an attempt to shoulder her and gain her attention in a friendly manner. “Welcome to the club sister.”

Schuyler, voice hoarse from running while inhaling smoke, laughs harshly and shoves Juice’s shoulder twice as hard to communicate that she’s not feeble in the least. “Thanks brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the guns have been successfully retrieved from the Mayans, but surely they won't let SAMCRO get away with blowing up their warehouse.  
> Will Schuyler get the opportunity to prove her loyalty to the club? What does it mean that there's a rift forming between the President and the Vice President, but Jackson seems to be forming a relationship with Schuyler? And with the reveal of the Mayans and Nords teaming up to face the SOA, is this just the start of the club's problems?


	4. First Crime Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The longest church meeting and the longest chapter released to date. Relationships continue to grow as trust is strengthen between central characters and Schuyler meets her new surrogate mother. Will she make a good impression?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no concept of time. 
> 
> Starting with this chapter, all updates (when I have chapters to update with) will be posted on the first of the month. There may be months in between chapters as you've seen, but it's only to ensure that the chapters I post are the best I can make them and sometimes real life takes priority. I'm going ahead and posting this chapter in the middle of the month to assure you that I'm still here and uploading!! To communicate this new update schedule. And because I'm excited to share some more story since I have been working on this one all week (first week after the end of the semester)!
> 
> *After being corrected by IMDB, the Prospect's name has been corrected to Half-Sack with a 'k' and Clay's last name has been corrected to Morrow with an 'o'. Apologies!
> 
> If you recall, we last left Schuyler and the group at the Mayans warehouse retrieving the guns the rival MC stole. We discovered Jackson's son was born which led to him question certain actions the club takes and open up to Schuyler in a surprising but honest way.
> 
> As for Schuyler, we discovered that not only has she killed in the past, but she is willing to kill again to protect those she shares the patch with. Even those she has just met. And more importantly, we can curse in my take of this story. It was very important to me that I gave Schuyler the first F-bomb. 
> 
> Let's see how much trouble the group can get into this chapter...

Thursday morning a different makeup of members than who had raided the Mayan compound rolls into Lodi with that very same van full of cargo that the group reclaimed just days ago. Tig is driving with both hands gripping the steering wheel and when he passes the sign that welcomes new arrivals he turns the radio off as if canceling the noise will establish a more professional mindset. Clay is beside him in the passenger seat watching as three motorcycles, acting as a buffer between the van and the rest of the world, drift in and out of the side view mirror. 

Taking alleyways and backroads the van eventually stops beside three black Escalades. Metal storage units act as a corral to block the expected transaction from any business roads leading back into the center of town. 

Clay steps out to meet a slim African American man wearing a purple vertical striped button-down who was being chauffeured. The rest of this man’s crew follows, filing out of the SUV’s to casually lean on the bonnets to encase the assumed leader in a protective shield.

Each is clearly armed, as is Clay’s own crew, but the weapons are hidden on their respective persons within easy reach. Though these men do not have such formal wear like the Sons’ kuttes, they are still very much considered to be in a recognizable uniform. The group is color coded. Almost every member is wearing at least one purple item, and many have ink visible to openly show which street gang they belong to. Schuyler takes in these subtle but unmistakable markers as she kills the engine of her bike. She memorizes the symbols and links them to the name “One-Niners” she was previously given to later be able to identify members. Eyes scanning the foreign organization, she dismounts to stand behind the van with Chibs and Piney waiting for the order to unload.

“Laroy,” Clay says, offering a hand. His smug grin a permanent fixture on his wrinkled face. “Didn’t I say I’d take care of you?”

Laroy greets Clay in turn as he forcibly pulls the taller man into a one-armed hug. A single, appropriate slap is given to each man’s back followed by a downward pump of their elbows in show of mutual respect. “Looks like you pulled through just in time white boy.”

“SAMCRO never misses a delivery. Question is: you got my money?”

The crews move in unison. Chibs opens the van to begin unloading the crates as a man with a severely burned face retrieves a black briefcase from Laroy’s car and stands beside him for the exchange. Everything appears to be going smoothly. Clay and Laroy continue to banter as their men do their bidding. Schuyler and Chibs are moving the crates from the van to the ground to an open vehicle and guns remain holstered. Yet as time passes Laroy’s men start to take notice to the blonde ponytail filing in as part of Clay’s moving crew. Then whispers arise, followed by demands.

“Stupid bitch.” – “Some gnash…” – “Who brought the entertainment?” – “How much she gonna run me?”

Laroy’s ears perk up and his eyes travel over the MC finding Schuyler pulling out the final crate from the van. “Is there somethin’ you forgot to tell me?”

Clay remains firm. “I didn’t know my club members had to be approved by you.”

“Just figured you’d leave the maid at home is all.”

Piney, who turns red in the face, jumps down Laroy’s throat. “Do you have any idea who you’re talking about?”

“I think I’m talking about some white trash two-bit whore coming here thinking she’s worth more than a hand job.”

By now Schuyler has heard the commotion and drops her end of the chest in the dirt taking Chibs by surprise. While men from both sides stand around bickering, exchanging insults directed towards each other and her, she can’t help but roll her eyes. She nonchalantly produces a pack of cigarettes from her jacket, lights it, and draws the smoke into her lungs more than happy to put on a show.

“Goddamn it, apologize Ape!”

“Piney!” Schuyler scolds, disapproving of the slur. Chibs starts beside her not having expected her to yell as Clay and Piney take steps back from Laroy to seek out Schuyler. Her voice returns to a conversational volume as she gestures with the smoke in her hand. 

“Piney, Piney…” She steps between both of the older gentlemen pushing them further away from the center of the conversation with the intension of reaching Laroy. “My honors intact, but it won’t be if you keep prattling…”

A thumb pulls back the hammer of a hand gun as one of Laroy’s men, really a boy likely younger than Schuyler, raises the weapon level with her head. Apparently she had moved too quickly towards his boss for the young man’s liking. There’s hardly time to react, only Piney manages to draw his gun. Schuyler halts, relaxes her shoulders, and turns just her head towards the boy. Out of the corner of her eye she sees that Piney has raised his weapon and she snaps her fingers around her cigarette pointing to the earth behind her. He reluctantly complies, lowering the weapon, yet still keeping his finger on the trigger.

She addresses the boy directly. “Put that away sweetheart unless you plan on using it.”

It’s clear that the action was involuntary on the man’s part. He seems surprised that Schuyler speaks to him which causes him to realize he has a gun in his hand. His eyes shift to Laroy expecting a physical clue as to how to proceed.

“Don’t look at him. Look at me and make a decision.”

The boy swallows hard, repositions his feet, but ultimately stashes the gun in the waist line of his jeans. 

“See that was the wrong decision. If you plan on sticking around much longer you’ve got to get right with shooting women,” Schuyler says. “You know the Italians, who move through here heading north. They’re a little more lenient than your boss. They have women do their smuggling all the time. They’ll be stepping on your profit soon and they will not hesitate to protect themselves. Let me tell you something else, I won’t hesitate neither. That’s just me being straight with you.” Schuyler pauses and another man still leaning on a van whistles in her direction in agreement. “Next time think before you show your hand. And if you get far enough to pull your gun you be sure to pull that trigger.”

“Shit bro,” the same man calls, “you best step back. She just schooled your ass.”

Schuyler takes another drag from her cigarette and flashes her hands to show she is unarmed as she resumes her path. Then she aligns herself with Laroy and lowers her hands. She does not make a motion towards her weapons, but her hands hang loosely beside her gun and knives in warning. She makes a conscious effort not to cantor and keep her posture open and relaxed when addressing the leader.

“Listen man,” Schuyler takes the cigarette out from her mouth between her thumb and pointer finger. She gestures with it as she talks. “I get it. These guys behind me not telling you I’d be coming. Unprofessional. I don’t like being caught off guard either. But I’m going to take responsibility for their mistake. Let me make sure shit like this doesn’t happen again.” 

Schuyler motions between their forms. “We’re still good here. And if you don’t want to trade with me, that’s cool. I’ll pack up and nothing needs to be exchanged today. But let me tell you something else. We both know that if you pass on this you’re going to have to wait at least two more weeks to pick up more gear that you need this week. And whoever else you buy it from will be selling you half the hardware for twice the cost.”

“Twice the cost?” Laroy asks. He is impressed with the woman’s courage to approach him and interested in where the conversation seems to be leading.

“Let me make this right. Offer an incentive to move this along and close this deal.”

“What did you have in mind?”

Schuyler raises the cigarette to her lips, “2.5%?”

Instantly Laroy’s composure shifts. He no longer sees white skin, or soft curves, or long eyelashes speaking to him. Instead he sees dollar signs. “I can work with that.”

“Like hell,” Tig barks. Piney, on the other hand, laughs so hard he begins to choke.

“Consider it a ‘getting to know you’ present. I won’t even count what you pull.”

Clay counters with, “But I will,” consenting to the altered price.

Laroy smirks. “We’ve got a deal.”

Schuyler smiles wide as she rests the nicotine between her lips and raises her hand high to clasp hands loudly with Laroy. “And next time you won’t be surprised when I roll up.”

“I’ll expect to see you from now on.” Laroy motions towards his man to hand over the briefcase.

“Come on Laroy. Don’t go missing me too much. I won’t always bare peace offerings.” Schuyler takes the bag and spins on her toes. As she walks back to the crate to finish loading Tig glares in her direction. She throws the case in his general direction which he catches with one hand. 

“That was some quick thinking. So quick you didn’t think to run it by me?” Clay asks.

“Take it out of my cut boss. I ain’t gonna starve.”

\-------

Jackson wipes the back of his hand over his forehead and throws a wrench back into his tool box. He has spent the morning working a shift at TM instead of following through with the Niners’ latest shipment. After messing up the pyro, Clay benched him as a sort of minor punishment much to his – and Piney’s, whose attendance at such business exchanges has become less frequent - dismay. He’s tired of looking down at the same bike and, expecting the group to return, shrugs off his TM shirt to hang it on his work station against the back wall. He engages with other employees who are busy working on their own vehicles as he passes on his way to the office.

Through the window to the garage office he spots a middle-aged woman with raven hair and unnatural blonde highlights hanging just past her shoulders. Wearing knee high leather boots and a blouse with frills where it falls open, clearly unabashedly, revealing a raised scar laying vertical down the center of her chest she is leaning over a mountain of paperwork.

He opens the office door enough to stick his head inside. “Hey mom. Clock me out?”

“There’s no way you worked a full shift,” Gemma answers looking up from the desk.

“Close enough. I’m going to go see the kid later,” he begins only to be distracted by the sound of motorcycles entering the parking lot. He looks past the garage door and sees that Bobby arrives first returning from his personal trip to Tahoe. Behind him a black van enters followed by three more motorcycles that find their places in the lineup.

Gemma places her hands on her wide hips. “Yeah I’ll be there. Hey, I still want to do that dinner. Maybe tomorrow? My house at eight.”

“I’m going to bring some of the guys if that’s okay.”

“Course. They know they’re always welcome. And make sure to invite the transfer. She’s managed to avoid me. I’ve been so busy with Abel in the hospital. I want to meet her.”

Jackson laughs. “She hasn’t been avoiding anyone. You’ll meet her soon.”

Gemma frowns yet the action doesn’t seem to detract from her beauty. Instead it looks like a rather natural expression. “She could always introduce herself.”

“Nah, she’s just as busy as you are. I think you’ll like her. She’s a lot like you.”

“Well at least I know not to trust her.”

“Bye mom.” Jackson gives a shake of his head in disbelief at his mother’s ability to be overbearing despite his age and leaves her to her affairs.

\------

“I’ve got the good shit!” Bobby exclaims. He is the first to enter and turns a paper bag upside down over a table where Chibs and Half-Sack are already sitting. He is quick to clear the way for the vultures to make their descent. As they file in one right after the other Half-Sack hurries behind the bar to start pulling drinks from the fridge, which members pick up from the counter as they pass. The prospect makes a point to serve the patches and let them have first pick before taking a muffin of his own. 

“Food,” Schuyler asks, leading the procession into the clubhouse. She examines the muffin without paper wrapping suggesting they are home made. She picks up a second muffin to give to Piney who lands on the first barstool he reaches, clearly tired from the morning’s activities. She perches on her own table across from Chibs as the rest of the group disperses randomly about the bar. It seems that Clay and Tig have gotten distracted as Jackson is the last to enter for a time. “Are you feeding us Bobby?”

Piney nods his appreciation to Schuyler as he proclaims, “These muffins go great with tequila Bobby.” As if to make a point, he chases his first bite with a shot of liquor he had the prospect pour him.

“Shit’s addictive,” Chibs says while twirling one in his hand to observe it almost fondly. “Turning me into a fat bastard.”

“You could pay me in food; I’d be just as happy.” Schuyler says around a bite she took from the pastry like an apple. She does not shy away from speaking with her mouth full, but rather continues to do so. “I don’t think I’ve eaten properly since I landed. Aside from those nachos that were growing. They almost constituted a meal.”

The prospect picks up his own muffin on his way to lean against the table beside Schuyler. Subconsciously, just as he would have made a joke at one of his brother’s expense, the words spill out of him without having any real reason or malicious intent. “You forget to shower too?”

“You tell me.” Schuyler drops the pastry on the table in favor of wrapping her right arm around Half-Sack’s neck to bring him down to her level. She is unconcerned with personal space as she wrestles with the boy in an attempt to pry the muffin out of his hand. She succeeds and shoves him towards the exit, taunting him with the sweet.

“Come on, no. I haven’t eaten today.”

She smiles. “Should have thought about that before you mouthed off. Shouldn’t you be in the garage? Go!” He looks dejected but reframes from arguing with the patch member, fearing the punishment that could be dealt, and leaves quickly with his tail tucked between his legs. 

Schuyler scoots backwards to perch on the table she claimed with one foot leaving the floor at a time. She keeps the sweet she stole close to her person as she trades it in favor of her own. As she takes another bite, she returns a number of curious gazes spread sporadically throughout the bar room. She replies, “I’ll throw it at him later. Bobby, I probably should have asked, but what’s in these. Did you just drug me?”

“Nothing but natural sugars and organic flour. None of that processed shit,” Bobby replies, pleased with his culinary skills. He sits at the table beside Chibs and opens a beer bottle. “Not that the rest of you give a damn.”

“No hash in ‘em?” Jackson asks as he sits on a pool table to Schuyler’s left taking up the furthest seat from the misshaped circle.

“You know my rule. No bud before noon.” Bobby responds by half-heartedly throwing the bottle cap in Jackson’s general direction. 

The Vice President opens a beer of his own to respond in kind. His throw is a little more forceful to ensure that it reaches it’s target. “I don’t have that rule.”

“They’re community muffins Jackson,” Schuyler chastises. “I appreciate it Bobby.” 

“Morning kids!” Clay shouts when he enters the clubhouse with a black bag hanging off one shoulder and Tig hot on his heels. He drops the bag on the table next to the remaining muffins and begins to unpack the contents. “Laroy is giddy about his new assault rifles.”

After the Niners left the drop point, Clay and Tig took the time to divide the money into individual envelopes for easier distribution. Schuyler agreed to take a severe pay cut. Not only because she arranged for the altered price, but also because she was not involved in their processing leading up to the guns being stolen.

“I’m all about racial harmony,” Chibs remarks when receiving his payment.

“Spend it wisely. It may be a little while before we see any more ‘gun green’,” Clay states as he throws a blank envelope towards Schuyler who catches it midair. While everyone else rips open their envelope to count the bills inside Schuyler stuffs hers into an inner pocket of her kutte.

Jackson is quick to notice. “You’re not gonna count it?”

“It’s rude to count it at the dinner table,” Schuyler answers in a hushed tone. “Besides, I’m sure I’ve been shorted on this job. You know, ‘since I’m new’.”

The share a laugh and it’s at this time that Juice emerges from a back room of the bar with information to report. “Clay. Just got a call from my city hall snitch. Hale’s got a warrant to search our warehouse.”

This gains everyone’s attention. Looks are exchanged until ultimately eyes turn to Clay who’s surprised by the news. But it’s Tig’s downcast eyes and worried expression from behind Clay’s shoulder that Schuyler is drawn to. “What, why are you making that face?”

\-----

“Two bodies on property under our name. That’s something you should probably run by me,” Schuyler states. She pops her left wrist once and leans forward with her arms crossed on the table.

The group immediately filed into the chapel for a mandated meeting – aside from Piney who excused himself on his own merits and age. After hearing the unsavory news that the local law enforcement would soon make an attempt to spy on the club coupled with Tig’s own announcement of evidence that could potentially damn him in particular, Chibs rises from his seat to pace the front of the room with his face emanating frustration. Those at the table share equally in his concern.

Clay rubs a hand down his face. “Guns were more important. Now you know.”

Tig sits a little straighter. “Since when is it ‘our name’?”

“Since like a week ago. Try to keep up.”

She sees the muscles in his shoulders and chest tighten but Chibs turns on him abruptly sparing her Tig’s response. Chibs leans over him to emphasize both his presence and his question. “What were you thinking, brother?”

Tig responds smoothly, “I was thinking about getting my dick sucked twice.”

“I don’t care whose dick was where on the night in question,” Schuyler interjects. “If I knew about the bodies I would have gladly been the first to tell you lot we needed to move them before PD caught wind.”

Bobby attempts to be reasonable. “All anyone can prove is that two extra spicy carnitas swallowed your chum. They died hiding from the fire. You didn’t kill anybody.”

“It’s not about a manslaughter wrap,” Schuyler says with a gesture towards the accused. “Tig couldn’t keep his hands to himself. His DNA makes our signature on the lease public knowledge.”  
Juice includes, “And the ATF will take up permanent residence in our collective rectums.”

Clay speaks. “That warehouse sits on county property. Hale is going to have to wait days to get San Joaquin to shake loose a forensic team.”

Juice refutes him. “It’s a local case. County won’t get involved. Hale will burrow a unit from Lodi.”

Jackson has an idea. “Hey, Big Otto’s sister still works for the ADA in Lodi. Call her, see if there’s a forensic team heading this way.” Juice promptly leaves without another word.

Clay continues. “I’ve got to have a talk with Unser. I’ll take Tig. Maybe I can convince him to put a leash on his hyperactive deputy.”

Jackson shakes his head. “Unser is just waiting for the clock to run out. That old boy is a sitting duck. We have to work around Hale. Find a way in, and soon. Strike first.”

Bobby raises his hand. “Before I forget. Uncle Jimmie called. Italians want to place an order. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Call him back and tell him that they missed the fire sale,” Clay retorts. He meets Schuyler’s eyes. “Are you going to be up to this? Disposing of innocents just because they took the wrong load at the wrong time?”

Tig chuckles to himself still proud of an act he views as an accomplishment. Chibs puts a hand on him when sitting, looking much like a father reminding his son to mind his manners at the diner table.  
Schuyler eyes the foam insulation on the ceiling. “Would you believe me if I said this wouldn’t be the first time? We don’t change much between county lines.” Bobby and Clay, having been in the club the longest, nod their collective understanding. “Besides,” Schuyler’s eyes meet Tig’s own as if in challenge, “it wouldn’t be the first time I had to clean up after a dog.” 

Juice bursts through the door hard enough that it closes on its own by the time he reaches his seat. Everyone expecting him to bring news turn their attention on the Puerto Rican. Though the group has forgotten about the blatant insult directed towards the Sergeant, it takes every ounce of will Tig can muster to keep from physically reacting above the table. He clutches his hands around the arm rests of his chair as if the death grip is the only thing keeping him in his seat and leaping across the table. Perhaps only those directly beside him can see his knuckles turning white or a vein protruding in his neck. Yet his anger doesn’t quite reach his eyes, instead reflecting a level of approval that not even he is able to place.

“I talked to Otto’s sister and Lodi forensic team will be here first thing in the morning.”

Clay throws his hands up exasperatedly. “And the shit keeps piling on my head. Only one thing is going to stop that Lodi team from getting to our warehouse. And that’s a murder in Lodi.”  
Tig is almost too eager to agree. While Schuyler and Bobby have their doubts, it is Jackson who speaks out. “I don’t know man. Hale’s on red alert. Mayans, Nords, everyone is twitchy as hell. It’s not a good time to-“

“It’s never a good time! But we’re talking about protecting Tig here,” Clay barks. “And staying out of ATF’s cross hairs. We hit the projects. Pick up a dealer, some scumbag…”

Tig believes he has a solution. “We should off a couple of Nords, Clay, is what we should do. Do that and dump the bodies in Lodi. Buys us time to get the Mexicans out of the hole. Sends a message to Darby. Kill two birds with one Crow.”

“At least I’d know the bodies deserved it…” Schuyler tentatively agrees. A few words spoken. Such a simple sentiment yet it’s enough to change Schuyler’s mindset. Clay is right after all. This job would be first and foremost about keeping Tig out of the spotlight.

“Very clever. With the cops eyeballing the warehouse?” Chibs chides supporting his chin on his hand.

Tig tilts his head down, shrugging his shoulders when responding to the man to his right, “Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll handle that. You set it up,” Clay orders and Tig stands to leave the chapel.

Jackson begins speaking. It sounds like the plan is coming to him as he lays it out. Talking simply to keep Tig from running off. “What if I could do this without spilling blood?”

Tig pulls a face as if the notion itself is ridiculous. “Hey this isn’t about me tripping some guilt shit about my kid. This is about one of us thinking straight. ‘Brains Before Bullets’, right?”

Clay gestures for Tig to sit. “Let’s hear it.”

“All we need for murder is bodies and a crime scene.”

“Jackieboy,” Chibs interrupts, “now ye’ve lost me.”

“Skeeter,” Jackson explains. “He’s always got more gambling debt than he can handle. I’ll make it worth his while.”

Bobby pulls a face. Somewhere between discomfort and approval of the younger man’s quick thinking. “The cemetery guy?”

Chibs approves. “Cash for cadavers. Like it.”

“I give Lodi a front-page murder. We don’t stir up another shit storm to bite us in the ass.”

“What about educating Darby?” Tig demands rubbing irritably at his beard.

“I’ll figure that out. Important thing is to keep your DNA out of the Petri dish. Protect the club.”

Schuyler, without intending to pick a side, votes with Jackson. “That’s a way better plan.” 

“Path of least resistance is always better,” Clay eventually agrees. “We’ll do it your way V.P.” And with a plan set in motion, fully organized by the Vice President, the meeting is dismissed. As everyone disperses to attend to their individual tasks Clay confronts Jackson privately. “Don’t make me regret this.”  
\-------

Outside, Schuyler is talking with Chibs and Juice waiting for Jackson to emerge. When Chibs catches sight of Jackson’s approach he turns towards the garages. “Hold on. I’ve got to invite Sack.” He whistles towards the open garage to Half-Sack who is busy at work. “Prospect! You’re in!”

Half-Sack quickly trades his TM employee shirt for his kutte distinguishable from patched members by sporting a single patch reading ‘PROSPECT’ along the bottom hem. 

Jackson throws a set of car keys to Juice who catches them against his chest. “You’re driving.”

Juice jogs to the driver’s seat sinking low into a purposefully generic car that Schuyler can only assume has false plates for the club to use undetected. The prospect is next to reach the car and he naturally opens the passenger side door. Schuyler reaches the prospect as he opens it and shoves his chest hard directing him to the back seat. He rubs his hand across his chest where her hands were to show that the push that made him stumble backwards was felt. “Bitch seat,” Schuyler barks and she gracefully falls into the passenger seat slamming the door shut. Though she buckles her seat belt she is just as quick to kick her feet up onto the dashboard and force Juice’s arm off of the center armrest claiming the space for herself.

Chibs is laughing when he walks up to the vehicle and glances in at her through the window. The prospect opens the back door and Chibs agrees, “She’s right. Bitch seat,” before shoving the prospect into the car by his head. There he sits between Jackson and Chibs with his feet propped up to his chest on the hump in the floor because the two older members physically demand the leg room.  
When the doors are closed, Juice drives out of TM’s parking lot and Schuyler decides to gage him in conversation as she has grown accustom to doing over the last few days. Though it isn’t in a fashion that he has grown to expect. 

“¿Cuál es su opinión sobre el ‘prospect’?” Schuyler asks casually in fluid Spanish. Turning her head towards Juice as if waiting for an answer she can just see Half-Sack perk up at the mention of ‘prospect’ out of the corner of her eye. She’s pleased that though she was not speaking directly to him, and that she spoke in a language he most likely does not understand, after just a few short weeks he has adopted the habit of filtering out everything he hears to respond to a singular word that can be used to call him to action. He is even willing to answer any member, not just his sponsor, just as he is meant to do.

Juice responds simply. “Was that Spanish?”

This time when Schuyler looks to Juice she is genuinely looking at him in disbelief. “¿No hablas español? ¿Ninguno? ¿Por qué?”

Juice responds in earnest. “I grew up in Queens.”

“That’s no excuse. How are we supposed to trade heartfelt secrets?” Schuyler’s voice drips sarcasm. “More importantly, how are we supposed to talk shit about everyone else?”

“I never had a reason to learn it.”

Schuyler turns to look out the window mumbling under her breath, “Pocho.” 

Juice is quick to reply, “What was that?” clearly able to recognize an insult when he hears one.

“Any stations around here worth listening to?” Schuyler suddenly asks the car at large. She starts spinning a dial on the radio speeding through foreign channels looking for a station name or a title of a song that reflects a particular genre she is searching for.

The prospect, still pissed about having to ride in a seat that is meant to be degrading, thinks aloud, “Not country.”

Letting the remark about her accent slip she instead stops on a station that looks promising and turns up the volume until she is straining to speak over the voice that is mid-lyric. “Ye’ of little faith.”

“…mend myself before it gets me…” a male artist sings from the speakers on a generic rock station. 

“Cool song,” Juice states approvingly. “I’ve heard it a few times, but I haven’t really gotten into the band.”

Schuyler releases a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and reaches up to begin fiddling with the rearview mirror. Juice doesn’t react as she positions it to were she can make eye contact with Jackson in the back seat without sitting up herself. She looks genuinely offended by Juice’s comment and looks to Jackson for answers as to why Juice seems to have neglected so many areas of his life that she evidently deems to be important. 

Jackson hides his amusement as he responds blankly. “I ain’t his keeper.”

Schuyler jams the mirror back to where Juice can mostly use it. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Juice repositions the mirror. “All that and you’re not gonna sing for us?”

Schuyler stares out the window for the rest of the drive. She cranks up the radio even further to avoid continuing a conversation, but not without grumbling, “I don’t know any of you fuckers like that.”

\-------

When Juice puts the car in park, it’s in a small lot on the edge of town. The sign on the front of the building reads, ‘Crematorium’ and the waiting room past the front entrance looks well lit. Everyone spills out of the car and ignores the well-lit entrance. Jackson leads the group to the back of the building and pushes on a set of doubles doors that read, ‘employees only’ inviting himself inside. A man who most likely purchases his clothes in ‘Big-N-Tall’ sections of department stores is bustling about the steel and concrete room in a leather apron mumbling to himself as he works.

Jackson walks down the steps into the room followed shortly by Half-Sack. The prospect looks uneasy being in a room with one fully functioning oven and several freezers for human corpses lining the main wall. “You really cremate bodies here?”

Chibs makes a threat from the doorway as he is the last to enter and closes the doors to the outside world. “Yeah, we do.”

Schuyler chooses to lean on a freezer door while Jackson approaches the man to engage with him. Skeeter drops what he’s doing to examine the intrusion when he spots Schuyler and a shy smile that doesn’t match his composure forms as he makes a move to shake her hand. “Oh, hi. I’m Skeeter. Nice to meet you.”

Schuyler offers a tight smile. “Look, but don’t touch, ‘Genetic Repo Man’.”

Skeeter is happy just to be acknowledged. “Oh yes ma’am. What can I do you for?”

Jackson leads the negotiations with a handsome grin. “We need a favor Skeeter.”

“I’m not sure how much help I can be right now. Got a supervisor crawling up my ass from the last one.”

“Relax. We’re not here to make a deposit.”

Chibs joins the rest of the group on the floor to stand over Half-Sack who found a chair against the wall away from the equipment. Chibs pushes the boy’s head to look at Skeeter and points making sure he is paying attention. “Actually, it’s a withdrawal.” 

Jackson speaks plainly. “We need two bodies. Fresh.”

“Are you serious? For what?”

“Well I could tell you. But then I’d have to stuff you in the furnace.” 

Skeeter starts a nervous laugh. “Two dead ones? That’s crazy shit man.”

Jackson produces an envelope, pressing it into Skeeter’s chest. “I’m sure you took a beating at the Golden Gate this weekend.”

Skeeter passes the folder back forcibly. “No man. I stopped the ponies. I stopped it all. Gambler’s Anonymous. Thr-three months now.”

“You’re kidding? You don’t want the money?”

“I’m working a program, you know. Something you might be able to get for me?”

Schuyler rolls her eyes. “What’s that?”

“Emily Dunkin.”

Jackson immediately defers to Chibs “Emily Dunkin. She’s one of our Friday night whores. She loves a good punch up the knickers.”

Schuyler averts her eyes, clearing her throat to avoid laughing, as she thinks that the particular choice of words matched Chibs’ accent a little too well. To her relief, she goes ignored.

Skeeter becomes very interested. “No kidding. I’ve been trying to push up on that for a long time.”

“You want to hook up with a Croweater, I’ll make it happen.”

“Really? Well shit. You’ve got a deal.” Skeeter crosses the small room in two strides to pick up a clipboard on a work bench. “I’m not cremating anything ‘til the end of the week.”

Chibs raises a hand. “We need two by tonight.”

“I’m prepping a closed coffin.”

“White guy,” Jackson asks, receiving an affirmative. “I’ll take it. We need a Mexican guy too.”

Skeeter turns the page. “Buried one this morning. Cheap seat. Should still be fresh.”

Half-Sack’s concern grows. His face flushes. “Wait, you mean we got to dig it up?”

“Shit Prospect,” Schuyler corrects him. “Who said anything about ‘we’?”

\------------

“Hey Jax,” Schuyler asks from her place in the passenger’s seat. Her feet are on the floor, but she’s still slouching to avoid being seen through the windshield. The group minus the prospect who they left at the grave site are sitting in the car parked at a public park. Two hundred feet ahead Darby is sitting with his back to them speaking with a large Hispanic man wearing a kutte similar to the Sons’ with a different club patch on the back. He is the President of the Mayans MC California chapter. “Should I attempt to listen in? If I stay on this side of Darby, Alvarez still doesn’t know my face.”

“We stick to the plan. If this works we don’t need to know what they’re talking about.” Chibs follows Jackson out the car to hot wire Darby’s Suburban. It being the vehicle chosen to use in the crime scene. The vehicle starts in less than five minutes and Juice follows the black car back to the crematorium. 

\------------

Returning in record time, the group surrounds the hole in the ground that hadn’t existed hours prior. From above, Schuyler can hear Half-Sack complaining to himself. “That’s, that’s great. Not only do you stink, but you’re a fat bastard too.”

Chibs drops to lie flat in the grass to peer over the edge into the hole. He shouts, causing Half-Sack to jump, “Ahhh, beware the zombie bikers!”

Everyone else gathers around the grave. “Jesus Christ! You scared the piss out of me.”

Juice sits on the edge and jumps down into the hole. He grabs the prospect by the shoulder. “Who’s your friend?”

“Hate this shit.” Half-Sack looks around to the faces staring down at him. “This is really bad Karma.”

Schuyler laughs. “Don’t tell me this is offending your delicate sensibilities.”

Juice is observing the body that surely weighs in at over three hundred pounds. “How are we going to get him out?”

“I think we’re gonnae need a tow truck,” Chibs jokes. Though he sounds discouraged knowing he’ll be doing most of the lifting. He jumps inside and proceeds to remove the rosary from the corpse’s arm to leave in the box and starts calculating how best to lift it. 

Jackson joins him falling more gracefully than the two previous. “What are you waiting for Sky?”

“Not me,” Schuyler waves her hand dismissively. She sits on the edge letting her feet kick loose dirt from the wall into the hole. “Not unless you want to lift me out too. Remember, I’m short. Don’t worry though. I’ll be your emotional support.”

After thirty minutes of struggle, Schuyler’s insistent laughter, and dropping the body twice between the hole and the van, the men eventually stuff the body into the back of Darby’s Suburban along with the second provided directly from Skeeter’s freezer and cover them with a black tarp. Schuyler takes pity and assists Half-Sack in refilling the hole trading the shovel between them every two dozen scoops. 

When the hole is full it is as though the grave site was never disturbed. 

\--------------

The group divide themselves between the two cars. Schuyler reclines in the backseat of the Suburban as she is the least bothered by the smell. Ahead of her Chibs sits beside Jackson in the passenger seat. He helps himself to a beer that Darby left unopened in a cup holder and he lights a cigarette with his free hand. Juice is driving the TM car behind them with Half-Sack in better spirits in the front seat away from the corpses.

“Jesus these guys stink,” Jackson complains. 

Chibs responds. “We’ll leave Darby some good Mexican stench.”

From a few blocks away two brightly colored and loud automobiles are racing each other at top speed on the two-lane road. Each is trying to pass the other. Swerving sharply to avoid on coming traffic.  
When they catch up to Juice they pass him without the use of their turn signal. They pass Jackson too. The second car is so quick to turn into the proper lane it cuts Jackson off. Nearly clipping him.

Jackson slams the brakes to keep from running into the smaller sports car. He curses as he yanks the steering wheel abruptly to keep from hitting the side wall. 

“Stupid asshole!” Chibs exclaims furiously, “Made me spill my beer!”

Schuyler is casual when checking on the car behind them. The low rider in pursuit is unaffected by the reckless driving of the sports cars. Speeding up the empty road the racers disappear from sight.  
They manage to travel half of the trip to Lodi uninterrupted. Then a police car rises over a hill and passes the vehicles with the false license plates. Red and blue lights flash on. The cop makes an illegal turn in the road and begins his pursuit. Juice is the first to see the patrol car and parks on the shoulder. The police car passes him to pull Jackson over a few car lengths down the road.

“Do you think it’s because I wasn’t wearing my seatbelt?” Schuyler jokes.

“Head light is out,” Jackson reveals as he rolls down his window. 

“Shit. Course it is. Stupid redneck,” Schuyler complains as she sits up to lean between the front seats. Chibs raises an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, I know. Face forward.”

Ignoring her, he pulls his gun from his vest and turns to Jackson who stares at him incredulously. “Lodi’s got a sky team. We’ll never get away. Not in this piece of shit.”

“Put it away,” Schuyler states firmly. Chibs begrudgingly complies just as the police officer enters Jackson’s window. “Looks like Juice is doing something smart. Afternoon officer.”  
The policeman begins his spiel. However, Jackson doesn’t offer his license. 

Juice reeves the engine. Closing the gap he rams the vehicle into the back end of the patrol car. Then he abandons the car along with Half-Sack. Both jog backwards down the side of the road taunting the badge. “Here piggy, piggy.”

The officer falters momentarily. Unholstering his gun to train it on Juice only to lower his arms as he half heartedly starts chasing the men down the street. 

As soon as the officer leaves Jackson and Chibs bolt from the Suburban. Jackson is quick with his knife to slash a front tire. Chibs rips the radio from the dashboard ensuring no backup can be reached. Schuyler, meanwhile, jumps over the backseat into the trunk. She lands heavily on top of the corpses without giving any forethought to spiritual ramifications she may face by doing so. She is quick to open the hatchback. Kicking it out with her feet. “Move!”

Back in his seat, Jackson makes a U-turn to pick up the men acting as a distraction. He is driving at a speed that is easily matched by then on foot.

“Run Prospect, run,” Chibs yells to his sponsi. 

“Get in you blithering imbeciles,” Schuyler shouts as she dives over the seat. In her place Half-Sack lands on the black tarp. He reaches out his hand helping Juice inside along with him. The Suburban is in an uproar. Swearing and shouting and flashing middle fingers out the windows at the cop who is standing in the middle of the street defeated. 

“Bye copper, bye!”

\--------

Several hours later the group has managed not only to ditch the policeman but also steal back the low rider that was compounded. Night falls by the time the group finds a secluded carwash in Lodi to stage the crime scene. 

Schuyler is reclining on the hood of the TM car while watching the men with gloves position the corpses in a less than convincing configuration for a double murder, hit and run. The purpose of the scene is not to be convincing, but rather confusing to the officials who will investigate it.

“Hey Sky,” Juice engages with her as he and the prospect drop the Caucasian corpse in front of the SUV. Jackson proceeds to direct Chibs in driving the car over the corpse’s head which gives into the tire with a discernible ‘crack’. “Do you think it’s gay if I shave my shit?”

“Are you kidding? It’s the twenty-first century. Girls appreciate if you do.”

“Man, I told you,” he motions to the prospect who move to sit in the passenger seat. “I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Still think it’s gay,” the prospect mumbles.

“You’re both wrong,” Jackson states. He’s standing over the overweight corpse ready to lift it with Chibs into the driver seat. “It’s gay if you shave it. ‘s not gay if you trim your junk.”

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself…”

“Never had any complaints,” Chibs chimes in. He counts down from three and lifts the corpse from the ground to the seat. The weight of one of its flailing arms presses the horn on the steering wheel as Half-Sack assists in dragging it into a sitting position. “Common Shammo.”

“Sack,” Schuyler starts as she rolls off the hood and retrieves multiple bags of blood from the back seat of the TM car. “If I’m expected to shave, you should at least consider shaving. Then maybe one day a really special girl will want to dribble your last ball.” 

It’s Schuyler who notices when Chibs audibly clears his throat in response to her lewd comment. He closes the car door, avoiding her watchful gaze, as he steps in front of the vehicle to survey the scene at large. She is just as quick to advert her eyes. Avoiding drawing attention to the older man as she passes Half-Sack his own bag of blood. “Here. Ice the tub of lard.”

The two cover both corpses in the red liquid. Multiple blood types, neither of which belong to the two bodies, can be expected to keep any forensic team busy for at least a few hours until it is realized there is no crime to be solved. 

When the bags are empty they fall in line ahead of the car. Jackson is the first to raise his piece to the windshield. “Let’s do it.”  
Schuyler practices her precise aim, firing into spaces where she knows the men beside her wouldn’t think to shoot. The rest hold their firearms with a signal hand and empty their clips sporadically into the front of the car.

“What a beautiful thing!” Chibs exclaims, ceasing firing.

“You plant the gun,” Jackson directs. “I’ll leave the message.”

The message which Jackson writes in blood on an intact window reads, ‘M + N = BLOOD’. Leaving county to come to their own conclusions, the message is meant for the MC’s competitors. 

\--------------

The drive from Lodi to Charming is significantly uneventful. That is, until Jackson slows the car to a halt in the middle of the road outside a small gas station about five miles from town. “Do you see what I see?”

“Aye.” Parked in the small lot is one of the racing cars. The driver’s seat is empty.

“That’s the douchebag that cut us off.”

Jackson parks next to a pump. The prospect keeps Juice company as he fills the tank. Jackson walks into the convenient store with a confident swagger in his step with his friends in tow.

“It’s been a very long night brother,” Chibs begins to lecture his younger sibling.

“Come on. Won’t take long,” Jackson grins back.

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Chibs?” Schuyler asks, stepping through the door Jackson holds open for her. 

The store is cramped with four rows of junk food. A single attendant is standing guard over the register inside a glass box pushed to one wall. Aside from Jackson’s intended target there’s only one other costumer in the store. 

Schuyler approaches the short woman at the end of the aisle furthest from the one the racer is occupying. She whispers over the woman’s shoulder, “Hey. Get out of here,” and proceeds to lean on the end of the row facing the racing driver’s back. When the woman sees Schuyler’s vest she promptly leaves. She ducks past the men as well clearly frightened by their mean looks and tough outer personas. 

Chibs mirrors Schuyler’s stance on the opposite end of the aisle. He waves Jackson on his way. He grimaces while keeping guard to deter civilians from entering. 

Jackson stomps down the center rows. He approaches the man pouring a soft drink out of the machine on the back wall. “Hey. Pass me one of those Hostess ‘dumbshits’.”

The man turns cluelessly. Jackson punches him square in the jaw knocking him to his knees. The soda is thrown across the room soaking the counter and the floor. Jackson lifts him by his shirt and punches him again. When the man doesn’t get up from the floor on his own Jackson settles for kicking twice in the chest. “Don’t cut me off again asshole.”

“Hey! What are you doing?” The cashier shouts from his protective casing in broken English. “My store. What are you doing in my store?”

The man shuffles out of the box into the aisles to better see the fight taking place. He is only kept from approaching by Schuyler who is quick to raise a knife to the man’s neck in warning. “Easy Hoss…” The attendant who is scared of both the woman with the black knife and the man who he believes is looting his cash register and is left in limbo occupying the empty space between the two afraid to move or lose sight of either.

Chibs is quick to confront him but is distracted by a security camera inside the box. Chibs pushes past the clerk to begin searching for the evidence of Jackson’s display to destroy. 

“Feel better?” Schuyler asks Jackson as he walks up to her leaving his victim to whither in pain. They both blatantly ignore the cashier screaming at them to leave the building. From within the box, the sound of Chibs smashing the VHS tape on the countertop can be heard.

“Hell yeah,” Jackson smiles. He brushes his hair out of his eyes revealing the blood on his knuckles he is unconcerned with. More than likely due to it belonging primarily to the other man. Over Jackson’s shoulder Schuyler watches as the racer climbs to his feet. In the same motion he raises a gun that was previously hidden up with him straight at Jackson’s head. 

“Why don’t you come at me now asshole?!”

Schuyler has just enough time to force Jackson’s head down as she herself ducks out of the way. Luckily the racer is a crap shot, primarily due to the pain inflicted by Jackson, and the bullet misses the blondes entirely lodging into the protective glass casing of the box. 

Jackson rounds on the speed racer knocking the gun clear out of his hands. The two get caught in a struggle slamming each other between aisles trying to put each other on the floor.  
Chibs steps out from between the protective glass case in search for Jackson. He doesn’t interfere immediately but waits to see if his help is required. By doing so he leaves room for the clerk to retrieve a weapon he keeps stashed under the counter. However, the attendant does not return with a wooden bat but rather an axe and he charges past Schuyler with the intent to break up the fight one way or another. 

The racer gets the upper hand on Jackson slamming his head on a shelf putting him flat on his back. The man picks his gun up off of the floor and trains it on Jackson who looks up with his hands raised in front of his face. 

“Stupid prick,” the racer growls as he cocks the handgun. He doesn't get the chance to pull the trigger. 

“Enough,” Schuyler insists. Drawing her own gun, she raises level with the racer above the aisle forcing him to pause.  
The clerk reaches the scene and there is no sign of hesitation. He is running on pure adrenaline. When it is not evident that the fight is broken up by the waving of an axe, the man is left with only one other option. He swings it. 

The axe comes down swiftly. It is buried into the racer’s head. The gun drops to the floor with a clatter. And the clerk, left confused as though the action were unintentional, staggers away in horror distancing himself from the man's body which falls sideways against a row of shelves bringing bags of chips and assorted candies down with it. 

Schuyler steps into the row and makes make eye contact with Chibs across the aisle in absolute astonishment that the situation could run so far out of hand. Then they see that Jackson is still on the floor between them. His face is covered in blood that is not his own. Through the glass doors Schuyler looks up to see Juice and Half-Sack have finished putting gas in the car and are standing shell-shocked at the entrance having seen the axe bring the body down. 

“Holy shit,” Jackson exclaims, and he looks jarred. The front doors open but the men outside make no move to enter. The clerk who should have been no less than an innocent bystander is panting as the adrenaline wears off. He is on the verge of tears. Schuyler sees each of the men’s responses and decides it is up to her to act quickly.

“Alright. Play time is over.” She produces a black leather riding glove from her vest using it to pick the gun up off the floor which she trades for her own. She aims the stranger’s gun above Chibs’ head and shoots two rounds into the wall behind him where the racer had been facing when fighting Jackson. With her free hand she helps Jackson off the floor. She lines the side of her foot against his own, kicking him in a way to gain his attention, but when he realizes she is standing over him he takes her offered hand and pushes back against her foot to stand. She turns only to point the gun at the clerk and begins to give orders. 

“All of you get in the car. Now.” She leads the clerk around the store and walks him back into his intended enclosure. “This is why you don’t leave the counter. Remember, it was in self-defense.” She places the gun on the counter and closes the clerk up inside. 

“You okay Jackieboy,” she hears Chibs ask behind her. 

She turns to see Chibs dusting the V.P off. Jackson is still a little rattled as he gives one last look to the street racer laying in a pool of his own blood. “I’m alright.”

“Oh, you were helpful,” Schuyler mocks Chibs over her shoulder.

Juice shakes his head. “So much for not spilling any more blood…”

Schuyler squints daggers at the man through the glass. Her voice is authoritarian in nature as she leaves him with her simple instructions. “Forget. Our. Faces.”

The clerk, having understood the order, meekly nods his head and hunches over the counter, sobbing silently. 

\----------

She experienced an interesting shift. The first true test of her reliability and willingness to follow a less than convenient or consistent work schedule based around the needs of others. After finishing a long day, made longer buy an accident that even she couldn't explain, Schuyler arrived at the clinic at five till four in the morning. She was let in by the nighttime kennel technician. She was met several minutes later by the nurse she had been paired with for the particular shift. The young man about her age running solely on Red bull was eager and willing at such an early hour to take orders from Schuyler without question. She put on a brave face and was as responsive as ever to cliental, but by the end of the day she clearly exhausted. 

Unfortunately, the early start time did not mean an early end her day. She worked a ten-hour shift with a single break on less than four hours of sleep. By the time she left her locker in her casual clothes it was close to 3:00 PM. Still, the club didn’t expect to see her around for a few more hours and she decided to be productive. Jackson had invited her to a dinner at his mother’s house taking place this evening. Schuyler decided that bringing food to the party would serve as a good first impression and so grocery shopping became her first destination.

Schuyler hoped that by moving to California she would assimilate into a moderately more modern town, but that is simply not the case. It Is evident that Charming is a small town will a population not much bigger than the one she left in Valor. Being that she is product loyal, she has no need for a Starbucks. However, the severe lack of a Walmart or similar discount realtor stores is quite an inconvenience. She makes a mental note that she will need to search for a more commercial store in the surrounding areas for the long term as she dismounts her bike on main street. Though she’s confident that the closest is more than fifteen miles away.

A small-time grocery store is squeezed between a barber shop and a nail salon. She assumes each, like the rest of the pocket-sized stores on either side of the strip, is locally owned and has been for quite some time. She plans to avoid the supposed produce section believing frozen foods to be the safer option. Cars are parked in front of the glass windows beside her bike, but the store looks fairly empty. The building itself holds less than ten aisles and it looks like it can hold just about as many patrons comfortably before feeling crowded.

As she enters, she passes two women on the street. Each is carrying a number of plastic bags from the establishment Schuyler is entering and they are caught up in conversation too busy to pay her any attention. The rest of the street is in a similar state. There are as many empty as filled parking spaces in front of each establishment and a few people occupying either side of the sidewalk. But the strip is far from what Schuyler would ever consider busy.

She enters with an idea of what she will purchase and grabs a basket at the door. She walks through the store planning to peruse the rows from back to front. When she reaches the back wall, she leans down to pick up a loaf of bread with a brand that she recognizes on the bottom most shelf and freezes upon hearing a voice close behind her.

“I almost mistook you for my son.” Schuyler spins around to face one of the women that she passed on the sidewalk who had followed her back inside. Clad in a leather jacket with several sparkling bracelets on either wrist the woman with an interesting scar and the edges of what Schuyler recognizes to be a crow tattoo visible on her chest is standing strong in the middle of the aisle unconcerned with taking up space. She has her arms crossed and offers Schuyler a tight-lipped smile. “Then I realized those are not his hips.”

“No, they are not,” Schuyler replies easily as she ghosts her hand up her own thigh to rest it high on the hip in question. “It’s the hair though, right?”

“I’ve been telling him he needs a haircut for weeks.”

“Must be nice. I’m not ‘allowed’ to cut mine much shorter than this. But I always seem to find a way to do what I want.” Schuyler drops the cheap red basket with the loaf of bread on the floor and steps forward into the woman’s personal space. The mention of Jackson, who Schuyler shares a similar appearance with, tells her that the woman in front of her is Gemma Teller-Morrow. Her President’s Oldlady and her Vice President’s mother. That is all the information she needs to know that this woman not only deserves respect, but likely demands it as well. Schuyler offers her hand. “Ma’am, it’s nice to meet you.”

Gemma accepts the offer while making a face as if she smells something her nose doesn’t like. “Not necessary. Call me Gemma.”

“Really,” Schuyler asks. “I prefer it. I’m Doctor Schuyler, but please, call me Sky. Sorry we haven’t met before now.”

“Not another doctor.” Gemma rolls her eyes. She’s visibly irritated, so Schuyler knows not to press her on the individual she evidently has in mind. Gemma’s hands gravitate to her hips only about two sizes smaller than Schuyler’s own. 

“Veterinarian actually,” Schuyler begins to explain. “Perfect get away from my usual scene.”

“That's quite a bit different from club business, isn't it?” Gemma, like Clay, views the question as an opportunity to gauge Schuyler's value.

“You would be surprised by how similar the two can be. Usually the main difference is the amount of hair on the creatures I have to pick up after.” 

“But not always.” Gemma manages to loosen the hold of her smile a bit. A corner quirking up to one side. It is not meant to be a sign of acceptance but rather a show of good faith. “Well in any case. I knew you couldn’t be my son when you stepped foot in here. Thirty years old and he would never do his own shopping.” Though Gemma is making small talk it is clear that she is observing Schuyler’s movements. Her eyes are calculating; her posture guarded.

“I’m sure it’s blasphemous doing it in my vest, but it’s meant to keep strangers from walking up and starting conversations.” Schuyler makes a show that she can be just as observant. “The woman outside. Do you make a habit of picking up the tab for strangers?”

“Opie’s wife. But she hasn’t been around much since he went inside.”

“I heard. Inside five years. It’s hard when that happens. For everyone.”

“It is,” Gemma agrees and her demeanor shifts. “It’s my job to help out where I can. If we stop helping each other we lose everything we’ve built. Speaking of, I’m hoping that my son remembered to invite you to dinner at my house tonight.”

“That's why I’m here. Sack mentioned something about not eating meat. If I know anything about the people hanging around my club I know that not even the chefs would think twice to include a vegetarian option. Thought my contribution could be something green. If nothing else I can get a kick out of seeing those guys discover a new color of food.”

“That's awfully considerate of you,” Gemma muses. She finds the woman more than two decades younger than herself to be amusing though she is still trying to gauge if the doctor has an angle beyond simply making friends.

“As long as he doesn't know I'm the one that brings it we should be good.” There is a lull in the conversation. Schuyler looks down to her basket. “Well, this isn’t my first errand today.”  
“The club keeps us all busy,” Gemma suggests.

“That it is does. First chance I’ve had to see the town.” Schuyler doesn’t take the bait. She keeps her answers broad unsure of exactly how much Gemma knows about her family’s extracurricular activities. “Figured I’d run errands while I’m at it.”

“Club have anything going on tonight? Just so I know how late to expect you.” 

Schuyler knows it’s a test to see if she is willing to divulge information willingly. Even to Oldladies. “Probably just going to have a beer at the clubhouse,” Schuyler smiles easily, “You know, the usual. Then we’ll head over to your place.”

“One big happy family.” Gemma seems pleased with Schuyler’s cooperation. “I’ll see you tonight. Make sure they arrive in one piece.”

“I’ll certainly do my best.” 

\------------

Schuyler was actually the first to arrive which is a first. Instead of going to the clubhouse like she had suggested she would to Gemma members where meeting at the crematorium to dispose of the bodies, and the evidence, linking the club to the warehouse. She spent an hour in the back-parking lot engaging with Skeeter every couple of minutes who seemed to be making excuses to leave him dungeon to do so. Bikes arrived slowly one at a time until eventually a black van carrying the bodies of the two Mexicans that Tig and Bobby had retrieved from the gun factory. 

The two burly men pulled folded black tarps from the back and each walked one into the cemetery building shoving them none too delicately into the furnace. 

The group gathers around the open oven door. They watch as the low flames lap at the already charred corpses and pause unsure how to proceed. 

Still the most skittish of the bunch the prospect offers to break the ice. “Should we say a prayer or something?”

Juice standing beside him cannot help but to crack a joke. “Anyone know any Bible passages for lost semen?”

“Please say yes!” Schuyler exclaims from the back row. Unable to keep her composure during what she views as a ridiculous display she heads up the stairs towards the exit as Jackson punches Juice in the back for being disrespectful. 

Tig, who is the cause of the women’s bodies needing to be burned in such an impersonal way, is standing closest to the furnace as he bows his head and says a short prayer. “Amen.” Reassuring himself with the prayer he presses a button invigorating the fire and closes the oven door solemnly. 

\-------

The group arrives in a single motorcade parking their bikes in the driveway and along the street. Several other vehicles are parked in the yard and across the street as well signaling the club are the last guests to arrive. 

Schuyler dismounts beside Jackson who sees her pull a clear container out of her bike bag in a manner that suggests she is trying to conceal it. “What’s in there?” His answer is a raised finger to her lips. 

Inside the warmly lit house is full and teaming with life. Several women are bustling about the kitchen passing a joint between them as they prepare the food. One of them has a small child clutching the hem of her shirt refusing to leave her side. 

The women’s relation with the club isn’t evident. None of them attempt to greet the motorcycle members beyond offering a familiar smile or wave. They do not approach Schuyler. After reflexively raising their kept eyebrows towards a new female body they see the club vest on her back and are quick to change facial expressions to one showing kindness and respect. None of them are wives or Oldladies. Most likely they are long time friends of the club in need of a good meal and just as good of company.

The one face Schuyler recognizes in the kitchen is Gemma who, just as Schuyler had anticipated, has complete control. She is directing the menu and the items that need to be prepared first. She places a bowl in another woman’s hand and sends her into the dining room to place it on the banquet table. 

Schuyler slips the container of coleslaw on the counter and Gemma nods her appreciation before sending Schuyler into the dining room with the rest of the group not allowing her the chance to offer assistance. 

In the dining room there are no less than ten chairs pushed against the wooden table. Individuals are milling about the dining room and den, but when Clay takes a seat at the head of the table, everyone else follows suit.

The table slowly fills with bowls and trays of home cooked food and the servers eventually sit down signaling everyone to begin eating. Those who are too late to grab a seat at the primary table fill a smaller table put up in the living room for the meal. 

Conversation is pleasant and constant. When Gemma takes a seat beside her husband she greets Clay with a sweet kiss reserved only for him. 

Schuyler sits on the furthest edge of the table, but that doesn’t keep her from joining the discussion. She even manages to hold conversations with Jackson and Gemma with several heads between them. 

At some point, Tig looks down at Half-Sack’s plate and notices a severe lack of meat. He picks up a plate of ribs and waves it under his nose tauntingly causing the boy to grimace. 

Schuyler who is sitting on the other side of the prospect steps in. She is careful when pushing Tig’s forceful arm away by touching the lip of the plate. “Leave the poor boy alone. He’ll out live all of us if he stays away from this artery clogging heart attack on a plate.” She passes Half-Sack the very container she bought and prepared today. The prospect takes it gratefully. He is none the wiser. 

As talk wears down during the night everyone has a hand in picking up the table. The women return to the kitchen assisting Gemma in cleaning the dishes and several men are thoughtful enough to take full trash bags out as they leave. The house empties steadily and the air cools as more space is made. 

Each person leaves feeling full from the food and content from the conversations. Closer to their chosen family then when they entered.  
Schuyler makes sure to thank Gemma for hosting her as she was taught to do. Then she leaves quietly, never one to over stay her welcome. 

Outside she runs into Juice as he talks to Half-Sack who she had seen leave several minutes prior. Juice waves to the prospect as the boy speeds away on his bike.

From across the street Schuyler calls to Juice. “Hey Juicy! Nos vemos.”

“What does that mean?” He lifts his hands in defeat. 

She picks her helmet up off a handlebar. She flicks the visor down after shouting her farewell. “It’s your first language lesson. Figure it out!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nos Vemos means "see you" in Spanish. While this may seem like a little throw away moment, I guarantee it has plot relevance. And maybe I just like these two character's current and future friendship!
> 
> What a nice family dinner. It seems like everything is capable of working out in the end. Of course, if this were always the case, we wouldn't have a story. Remember we are still in the introductions phase. The beginning of the first season. There is still plenty left to uncover.
> 
> For now, I'd like to leave you, the reader, with a few questions to ponder. General polls:  
> 1\. Do you prefer to see chapter summaries for the new chapter, chapter reviews for the last chapter (since its a few weeks in between each), neither (and perhaps instead teasers for the next chapter), or some combination? I want to make the reading process for you as easy to follow and enjoyable as possible!
> 
> 2\. Are you enjoying the lengths of the chapters so far? Are they too long or do you like longer chapters? Would you prefer to see smaller chapters (and maybe more frequent updates as a result, but this isn't a guarantee) or are you enjoying the format that mimics the original episodes? 
> 
> Just so I have a clearer idea as how to continue with posting the story.
> 
> Now I'd like to offer some more fun questions to ponder:
> 
> 1\. What's been your favorite scene thus far and why?
> 
> 2\. What's your favorite relationship up to this point? (brother - sister and who; father - daughter between Schuyler and Piney; others that are just starting out that we have yet to fully discover?) I have mine and would love to hear yours!
> 
> I'm offering these questions now because certain relationships may evolve quickly or your answer may drastically be changed in the next few chapters...
> 
> With the technical stuff out of the way, I really hope you're enjoying the story thus far! I sure am enjoying writing it. Don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts in the form of a comment (answering the questions would be an easy way to leave a comment! Let's hang out between updates!). 
> 
> I'll see you for the next instalment of TROD!


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